“My thoughts, exactly,” Okafor said. “Hey, her decision. We warned her. She didn’t have to go with Feinmann. Any luck finding Bettencourt?”
Kaye knew Okafor must not have any idea where he’d been the last two days. “Not yet. I’ve been gone since Wednesday. Just getting back in the loop.”
“Well, get up to speed quickly, please. If Sullivan is still alive and you can find Bettencourt soon, she just might make it to the witness stand.”
“You’ll be the first to know.”
He had to look up Sullivan’s number in the case file. All he got was the provider recording that the number was not available.
One more.
“Iwamura,” the FBI agent answered.
“Kai, it’s Ben. Have your people picked up Adrian Gagnon or Howard Feinmann yet?”
“Hello to you, too,” Iwamura said jokingly. “And the answer to your question is yes, and no.”
“Meaning?”
“We arrested Gagnon at LAX yesterday afternoon before he could board a flight out of the country. We don’t have Feinmann yet.”
“Are you looking? Actively, I mean.”
“Hell, yes, we’re looking.” Iwamura paused, then asked, “Is there a problem?”
“Not sure,” Kaye replied. “He bonded out a suspect in the Geller murder and I’m worried about her.”
“You think he’d hurt her?”
“Feinmann? Probably not. But my other suspect, the shooter, yeah. I don’t think he’d hesitate to kill her if he finds out she rolled on him.”
“Not good,” Iwamura said. “Who is she?”
Kaye shared the particulars on Megan Sullivan.
“Okay. We have agents looking for Feinmann as we speak. I’ll make sure they get this information and if they come across the Sullivan woman they’ll take her into protective custody.”
“Thanks, Kai.”
“You bet.” There was a pause. “Her real name was Stephanie Sherman. Ex-Naval Intelligence, three years with us, almost two of those deep cover on Maisano and company.”
Kaye knew Iwamura was talking about the woman he’d known as Elizabeth Latham.
“She broke the case, Kai. Not me. She put herself in harm’s way to get me face-to-face with Renzo Maisano.”
“I’ll make sure the Director knows that. Coming from you, that will mean a lot.”
“Lonsbury was running the case?”
“He was.”
“Tell him I said hello.”
“Will do.”
Kaye leaned back in his chair and idly spun from side to side. After a moment he got up, grabbed his riding jacket and headed for the door.
He had one half-decent connection to Bettencourt, and his gut told him to exploit it.
***
Kaye braked the Road King to a stop outside the Paloma Canyon Country Club parking gate. The kid working recognized him and, without a word, raised the bar and let him pass.
He parked, walked into the clubhouse and looked around.
No sign of Carol Soares.
He spent another five minutes looking, then gave up and headed for the club offices.
“Can I help you?” asked the young woman at the front desk.
“Detective Kaye, LAPD,” he said, pulling back his jacket to expose his badge. “I’d like to see Carol Soares.”
“I’m sorry, but Carol is no longer with the club.”
“Really? When did that happen?”
“Wednesday was her last day.”
“Did she give notice?”
“No,” the young woman replied, shaking her head. “She just walked in, handed the general manager her badge and keys, told him to just mail her check, and left.”
“Did she say why she was quitting?”
“I think there was maybe a family emergency or something.”
Nice, Kaye thought. All the rats are jumping ship.
“I’m going to need her address,” he said. “And any phone numbers you have for her.”
The woman’s expression changed to one of uncertainty as she said, “I’m not sure I can –”
“Trust me,” Kaye cut her off. “You can, and you need to give them to me. Now.”
Her expression changed again and she spun her chair around to face a filing cabinet behind her desk.
Less than a minute later, Kaye, the address and two phone numbers noted in his paper brains, was headed back to the Harley.
He recognized the address. It wasn’t far.
***
The Tower had started life as high-end housing for UCLA students with well-heeled parents. Just off campus, and much more like a boutique hotel with suites than a dorm. For years the waiting list, and costs, had been daunting.
But as college costs soared and even reasonably well-heeled parents began to look for financial aid and student loans, The Tower found itself becoming the quintessential example of a solution in search of a problem.
So it became condominiums and expanded its market from spoiled college students to the larger client pool of the spoiled population in general, and their lessees.
Kaye rolled up and stopped under the building’s lavish porte cochere, shut down, dismounted and looked around. Either an assistant country club manager made more than he thought, or her porn king ex-husband was paying considerable spousal and child support every month.
Both of which, he realized, were probably worth protecting.
“Hey,” a hustling valet called as he trotted toward Kaye. “You can’t leave your bike there.”
“Sure I can,” Kaye said as he hung his helmet on the handlebars. He turned around and showed his badge. “Police business. I won’t be long.”
The valet looked at him, shrugged his shoulders, and went back to his waiting spot behind the ever-present lectern.
Soares was listed in the directory as being on the 9th floor.
When Kaye stepped off the elevator there were no hallways, just a large lobby-like area, its carpet plush and the air redolent with the mixed fragrances from the floral arrangements on several side tables. Tasteful art hung on the walls. Ringing the space were two elevators, a door leading to a stairway exit, and five doors bearing unit numbers.
Kaye knocked on Soares’s door and waited, and knocked again. Still no answer. He headed back down, wondering where else he might check.
As he walked out the front doors, he was about to try her cell number when he saw her, her back to him, standing near the driveway. Beside her was a little girl, her hand in her mother’s. On the pavement on Soares’s other side were a medium-sized soft suitcase and a diaper bag printed with Winnie the Pooh images.
“Fancy meeting you here,” he said casually as he stopped next to the suitcase, hands in pockets and his gaze toward the street.
At the sound of his voice, her head spun toward Kaye. He glanced sideways and saw the color drain from her face. She instantly bent and scooped up the little girl.
“I was just upstairs looking for you,” Kaye said.
“For me?” Soares asked. “Why would you…?”
“I need to know where to find your ex-husband.”
“What makes you think I know where he is?”
Kaye raised his hands and gestured at the surroundings as he looked around. “Nice digs. Being a golf course gopher must pay better than I thought. But I heard you quit. Suddenly, too.”
“Okay, yeah, Dennis pays the rent. But he doesn’t live here. It’s part of our settlement and custody arrangement. He lives in Venice somewhere and I’ve never even been to his house. Why I quit my job is none of your business.”
“He comes here for visitation?”
“Yes, so I can keep an eye on him.”
“Yeah, I heard he plays rough.”
“You have no idea.”
Movement caught Kaye’s eye and he turned to see a silver Range Rover exit the parking garage and head toward them. It pulled up and stopped, and the valet jumped out, ran around the front of the car and held out a set of keys.
&nbs
p; “Here you go, Ms. Soares,” the kid said.
“Thank you, Frankie,” she said, taking the keys, “I’ll take care of you when we’re done here, okay?”
The kid looked at Kaye, then nodded before turning to walk away.
“Going somewhere?” Kaye asked.
“My mother’s, if you must know.”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“I thought you were already asking questions,” Soares shot back.
“Touche,” Kaye said. “But I’m curious. Why haven’t you asked me why I’m looking for Dennis?”
She hesitated slightly before replying, “Because I couldn’t care less.”
“Really? I’m thinking maybe it’s because you already know.”
“Know what?”
“That he killed Avi Geller and Nicole Ingram on your golf course,” Kaye said. “Oh, excuse me, I guess that would be your former golf course.”
“I don’t know anything about that,” Soares said, shifting the little girl’s weight and bouncing her slightly.
“My problem,” Kaye went on, “is that I think you do know. I think you fed Dennis information about when Geller would be on the course, and you found out that Nicole Ingram might be with Geller that day, and told Dennis that, too.”
“You’re crazy.”
“In fact, I’m also thinking that when I check your phone records I’m going to find a call, maybe a bunch of them, from your phone to Dennis, or from his number to you, on the very day of the murders. Maybe the Tuesday the week before, too.”
Soares stayed quiet. Kaye glanced sideways and saw a tear running down her cheek.
“You don’t understand,” she protested weakly.
“Carol, are you afraid of Dennis?” he asked softly. “Did he threaten you?”
“Not me, at least not this time,” she whispered, then leaned and kissed the top of her daughter’s head. “He’s a monster sometimes. He used to beat me, bad, when we were married. I couldn’t take the chance.”
“Then let me help you. If you know where he is, tell me. I’ll make sure he never threatens you or your daughter again, and your help will go a long way with the prosecutor.”
“Prosecutor?”
“Yes,” Kaye affirmed. “You’re involved in two murders. I can’t make any promises, but if what you’re telling me is true, well, I might be able to help you keep your daughter.”
Soares stayed silent.
“Tell me, Carol,” Kaye prompted. “Where is he?”
She didn’t turn to look at him, but when she spoke her voice was weary.
“You’re as bad as he is, you know that? You threaten people that bad things will happen to them and tell them what you think they want to hear, just so they’ll do what you want them to do and tell you what you want to know. Next thing I know you’ll be pushing me around, and if I still don’t tell you, you’ll hit me. Just like he used to.”
“I’m not like Dennis,” Kaye said, but a voice in his head was whispering ‘oh, yes you are’ as the memory of Reid’s bloodied face and broken hand flashed across his memory.
Soares went silent again.
Kaye waited, rocking slightly back and forth on his heels.
“I’m not sure exactly where he is,” she said at last. “That’s the truth. He’s staying in a vacant house that’s for sale. It was dark when I took him some groceries, and he didn’t give me the address, just directions, and told me to look for the sign.”
“Is it far from here?”
“No, it’s really not that far. A few miles, maybe. It didn’t take me long to get there.”
“The real estate sign, did it say Classic Realty and have the name Megan Sullivan on it?”
She gave him a funny look and asked, “How do you know that?”
“Not important,” Kaye said. “Did you see anybody else while you were there?”
“No, but I was only there long enough to drop stuff off, and Dennis didn’t let me inside. He just took the food and told me to leave, and to keep my mouth shut or else.”
“Thank you, Carol. That helps a lot.”
“Am I going to jail?” Soares asked, her voice quaking.
“I thought you said you were going to your mother’s.” He smiled.
Her relief was palpable.
***
Soares tipped Frankie, loaded her bags and daughter into the Range Rover and drove away.
Kaye watched her go, hoping she wasn’t stupid enough to call Bettencourt and warn him.
He pulled out his phone and made a call.
“Detective Lister.”
“It’s Kaye. You busy?”
“I’ve got twenty million things going, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be interrupted. What’s up?”
“I think I know where Dennis Bettencourt is. I could use your help.”
“When and where?”
“Now,” he replied, and gave her a rendezvous location. “And hurry.”
“Nothing outruns my V-8 Ford,” Lister said and hung up.
***
When they made the first slow pass down the street Kaye thought he’d been overly optimistic to think Bettencourt could actually be hiding in the very house Sullivan had listed on the morning he’d run surveillance on her. It was too much of a coincidence, and he didn’t believe in coincidences.
When he voiced his doubts, Lister pulled over and grabbed her phone. In two minutes she was able to determine that Megan Sullivan had no other listings in the area, and the house they were checking was the only one inside Carol Soares’s time and distance estimate – if it was valid.
But the house, with no realtor key box hanging on the front door knob and a ‘sold’ placard atop the sign, looked woefully deserted and there was no sign of Bettencourt’s vehicles.
“Makes sense, though, right?” Lister asked. “I mean, the guy’s not in there taking a bath and making splish splash. He’s hunkered down.”
“I suppose,” Kaye said. “Pull over and park, but not too close.”
Lister glanced at Kaye and said, “Not too close? You mean don’t park right in front? Gee, I’d never have thought of that.”
“Sorry,” Kaye said. “Just thinking out loud.”
“Apology accepted.” Lister looked at him and grinned. “Partner.”
Lister scanned the area and ended up parking in almost the exact spot where Kaye had parked during his surveillance. He mentally gave her points for it as she called in their location to dispatch.
They’d been sitting for about fifteen minutes when Kaye noticed Lister didn’t have her earbuds in.
“No music today?”
“I’m trying to break the habit. It interferes with my superhero-worthy powers of observation,” she said without taking her eyes off the house. “Besides, I’m waiting for you to tell me what the hell happened in Valle delle Viti after you cut me loose.”
“You didn’t ask.”
“I’m a big Hank Williams fan. I mind my own business.” She smiled at him. “Mostly.”
He told her everything, from how he’d extracted information from Reid to watching an undercover FBI agent be decapitated to his fight with Tamara Goschen and her death, the death of Renzo Maisano, and Auggie now being in inpatient detox in Santa Barbara.
“Holy shit,” Lister muttered when Kaye finished. “She’s going to be okay, though, right?”
“When I talked to the doctor this morning she told me Auggie was stable.”
“Stable’s good, right? I mean, she’s not crashing or anything.”
“Stable just means her condition is unchanged, for better or worse.”
“She’s staying alive, which means she’s got Barry, Robin and Maurice covering her six. She’ll be fine.”
Things went quiet for a while as they watched the house. There were zero signs of activity. The mailman delivered to the houses on either side, but skipped the house they watched.
“I think that means it’s vacant, right?” Lister said.
“
Or they just didn’t have mail today,” Kaye observed.
But her comment jogged his memory and gave him an idea. He pulled out his cell, made a call, and put it on speaker.
“Gallegos Landscaping. This is Hernan.”
“Hernan, Detective Kaye. How are you?”
“Hey, Detective, good to hear from you,” Hernan said. “In my business, we say ‘any day above the lawn is a good one’, so I’m good.”
“I’ve got a question for you.”
“Ask away. Anything.”
“You still take care of Classic Realty’s vacant listings? Megan Sullivan?”
“We do.”
Kaye gave Hernan the address of the house across the way and asked, “Are you taking care of that one?”
Hernan cursed and said, “I knew there would be a complaint.”
“There’s no complaint. But it’s on your list, right?”
“Yes, but I was told not to send a crew this week.”
“Who told you that?”
“Senora Sullivan,” Hernan answered. “She called me, let’s see, late Wednesday and told me she thought there was a buyer for the house, so we would be week-to-week now and she would let me know.”
“Thanks, Hernan,” Kaye said and disconnected before the landscaper could start asking questions.
“Seriously?” Lister asked. “Why would she…?”
“My guess is that Bettencourt threatened her if she didn’t,” Kaye said. “She said she was afraid he’d kill her if he found out she talked.”
“Then why the fuck is she helping that dirtbag?”
“If I could answer that, I could solve one of society’s very big problems.”
“So what do we do now? Call SWAT?”
“No, we still don’t even know if there’s anybody in there. I don’t want to call out the cavalry and traumatize the neighbors until we’re sure it’s not a dry hole.”
“We need to find out, sooner better than later,” Lister stated the obvious.
Kaye looked at the house for the thousandth time and considered their options.
“Drive around the neighborhood,” Kaye told her. “When we come back, park down there.” He pointed.
Ten minutes later she pulled into the spot and said, “Well, if nothing else, we know the evil prince’s little red Corvette isn’t parked nearby. What now? We can’t really see the house from here.”
Cruel Vintage Page 42