by John Lansing
“Beautiful place,” Jack said. He flashed a menacing smile and took a step toward the maître d’, who backpedaled. Jack wasn’t going lightly. After dodging her husband’s bullets, meant for him and the woman he loved, Jack wasn’t going down politely.
“So, how about that Sheik Ibrahim?” he asked over his shoulder.
“What?” It came out like a choke.
“Mommy?” Saarah asked, concerned.
“Keep painting, sweetie.”
The young maître d’ took a half step closer to Jack and had to look up to feign menace as Kayla smiled tightly and waved him off. He looked relieved but walked to his station at the front of the café and picked up a house phone.
“He’s the reason I’m here,” Jack said. “His eight-year-old son posted a video of Angelica Cardona on YouTube.”
She was rattled by this new revelation. “What are you saying?”
“Your husband and the sheik went to college together. They’re in business together. Thick as thieves. You’re a smart woman. We believe the sheik and your husband are responsible for the disappearance of Angelica Cardona.”
“But I don’t know—”
“The sheik’s a collector. Horses, cars, and women. Think about your daughter, Kayla. You can help me save this young woman’s life.”
“I’ve never seen her before.”
He added some police grit to his voice. “Help me or else you will go down with the evil.” He pointed meaningfully with a finger. “Hold on to my card and call me. You can still get out of this.”
Jack passed two intent mall cops on his way out the door. He blended with the well-dressed, upscale patrons. His message had been delivered.
* * *
Malic sat in his thirty-eighth-floor office with the killer view, waiting on the meeting with Philippe Vargas and Raul to go over the agenda for tomorrow night’s gala, being held at the Bonaventure Hotel. Philippe wanted everyone representing the Vargas Development Group to be on the same page. A uniform front, he had said. A dog-and-pony show, Malic had thought. But he’d be politic and his wife would be dazzling, and he would cement his place in the Los Angles political hierarchy.
His stomach was a little off, though, and Malic couldn’t really remember the last time he’d felt at ease.
It wasn’t the act of killing another woman that weighed on him. It was the number three that had become worrisome. Not because of any guilt. No, the proliferation of young women was proof of mistakes made, and it correlated to a diminishing bottom line. If the money continued to dry up, so would the salaries of his men and so in turn would his power.
Malic had learned through the years that a man would only sacrifice his own life and kill when ordered out of fear, greed, or religious fervor, which was the world’s greatest decimator. He knew he could only control his men with the almighty dollar.
Malic was pulled out of his contemplation by angry voices in the hallway. They were moving closer, and getting louder, until they stopped directly outside his door. He pulled open the upper drawer of his desk and slid his hand around the mother-of-pearl grip of his Beretta. The door was knocked open and in walked Nick Aprea with Halle, the receptionist, hot on his heels.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. al-Yasiri, I tried to stop him.”
“Nick Aprea, sir. LAPD. I just need a few moments of your time.”
Nick was talking fast, but his right hand had already flipped the leather strap off his revolver and his eyes never left the drawer with Malic’s pistol in it.
“Pull out the weapon, Malic, and put it handle-first on top of the desk.”
Malic complied.
“You have a permit?”
“And license to carry concealed.”
Nick let loose an engaging smile. “Then this is the first day of the rest of your life.”
“I don’t understand.”
“If that gun had made it out of the drawer, your brainpan would have been splattered all over the white wall behind you.” Nick came over, looking down pointedly at the gun. “Now let’s start again. I need to ask you a few questions. Are you all right with that? The caveat being if you’re not, we’ll continue this at headquarters. Your call, Malic.”
“Here’s fine. Thank you, Halle. I’ll call if I need anything.”
“Are you sure, Mr. al-Yasiri?”
Nick did a slow turn and the look in his eyes was all the response needed as Halle retreated rapidly back down the hallway.
“That’s better,” Nick said, closing the door. He pulled out his ID and badge just to keep things by the book. “Lemme see the paperwork,” he said, referring to the gun.
Malic went through his wallet, found the correct card, and handed it to Nick, who gave it the once-over.
“Fine, now stow it.”
Malic carefully picked up the gun and placed it back into his drawer and closed it.
“Lotta men get killed with the same weapon they buy for protection.”
“I wasn’t aware of that,” Malic said, not enjoying the scrutiny or having to follow this cop’s orders.
“Speaking of accidents, your friend had a doozy. Surprised I didn’t see you at the hospital. He’s pretty knocked up.”
“I’m not sure who you’re referring to.”
“I had an in-depth discussion with your bud Mustafa this morning.”
“My bud?”
“Mustafa belongs to your club.”
“I’m at a loss.”
“That’s one hell of an understatement.”
“Can we get down to what you want, Detective Aprea? I’ve got work to do, and you didn’t make an appointment.”
Nick was pleased by this piece of officiousness. “That’s one of the great things about being a detective in the U.S. of A. When I’m working a murder investigation, I don’t need no stinking appointment,” he said like a bad Al Pacino. And then continued in his own voice.
“I’ve got pictures of you entering the club around six p.m. two nights ago. Mustafa entered the club twenty minutes later. And then two women. A blonde and a dark-haired beauty. And then, same night, we have you exiting the club around nine with a shit-eating grin on your face. You and your butt-boy, Raul Vargas. We got the dark-haired broad in custody, but you already know that, right? You set Mustafa and her up with a lawyer your group keeps on retainer.”
Malic contained his rage. “It’s a social club with an extensive membership. It’s a place for Iraqi nationals to get together and enjoy the camaraderie of the old country. I’m not on a first-name basis with all of the members, nor am I responsible for their actions.”
“An important man like yourself? Here’s his mug, might shake your memory.”
Nick handed off his cell phone, featuring the photo of a bruised but very much awake Mustafa sitting up in his hospital bed.
“The pain meds, they loosen the tongue like crazy,” he observed mildly.
“I’ve seen him, never to talk. And as you inferred, I was otherwise engaged that evening. Is it now a crime to have an extramarital affair in America?”
Nick gave the contrite man his wolf grin. “You just buried yourself, Malic. We’ll get an age on our black beauty, and if she turns up underage, you just confessed to an officer of the law that you had relations with a minor. If she’s underage and illegal, then yeah, it’s a fucking crime.”
“I prefer blondes.” Malic delivered it as if he’d said checkmate.
He handed the cell phone over to Nick, who stepped back and snapped a few shots of Malic and the gold idol that appeared to be sitting on Malic’s left shoulder, staring down on the proceedings.
“You don’t know him? I’ll take your word for it. That’s good news for you. He wasn’t very talkative at first. He hit his pumpkin head and couldn’t remember too good, until I reminded him about his attempted murder of a police officer, aiding
and abetting a drug distributor, and transporting an illegal minor across state lines for the purposes of sex. His memory came back like . . .” Nick snapped his fingers for punctuation.
Keeping Malic off balance, he took a verbal left turn.
“Beautiful statue, that.” Nick snapped another picture of the idol. “Looks like the real thing.”
“Don’t I wish.”
“I guess. Something that valuable could bring a person a lot of grief. But hey, I’ve got a bud over at UCLA got his doctorate in the lost treasures of Iraq post-Saddam. He’s gonna be all over that thing. Sumerian, isn’t it?” Nick walked behind Malic and picked up the statuette. “They do some great knockoffs these days; this has got some heft,” Nick said, almost dropping the sculpture for effect. He handed the idol back to Malic, who remained icy calm.
“You’re having quite a string of bad luck, Malic.”
“How so?” Malic answered smugly as he gestured to the view beyond the window.
“World’s your oyster, huh?”
Malic didn’t dignify the question with a response.
“Well, you’re operating in the right town.”
“Explain.”
Malic expected Nick to shake him down, ask for money. It was how business was conducted at home, and he would pay to grease the wheels if needed.
“You’re a good actor,” Nick said, “I’ll give you that. You lose three fifty in dope, value of your house tanks, you tried to take out a friend of mine and failed, and here you sit, like, ‘Made it, Ma, top of the world.’ ”
Nick started for the door.
“That’s all I got right now. Enjoy the rest of the day.” And Nick was gone.
Malic sat perfectly still, staring at the pure-gold idol. He rose from his seat, and the only clue to his mental state was the slight tremor in his hands as he placed the priceless artifact back up on its pedestal. He’d melt it down for scrap if it came to that.
* * *
Jack stepped off the elevator at the lobby of police headquarters in downtown Los Angeles. Leslie was nursing a Starbucks, having finished her own interview and deposition about the attack the previous night. She shot him a look usually reserved for defense witnesses. Cool. “They’re sure the Mexican Mafia is good for the gunplay,” Leslie chided.
“Not brain scientists, the lot of ’em. So al-Yasiri’s Teflon? It was him. He knows I’m getting close.”
“That may be,” Leslie said, not convinced, “but he’ll be sharing the podium with the mayor, the cardinal, the city council, the downtown redevelopment committee, and the rest of Vargas Development Group tomorrow night. He’s one of the guests of honor. He’s a success story, Jack. Iraqi immigrant moves to the States, makes good, and gives back to the community. Speaks well for Los Angeles.”
“He’s dirty and I’m gonna take him down.”
“Any confusion as to why I didn’t invite you?”
“The DA’s office has a table?”
Jack had to admit being left out stung. She hadn’t even thought to mention it, he was that much of a political liability.
“Along with the police chief and half of the force. I’ll be there eating rubber chicken and hobnobbing with the elite, the up-and-comers, and the wannabes.”
“I’m hurt,” he said, making light of it. “I can hobnob. What the hell does that mean, hobnob?” he said, vamping, trying to get a handle on what he was really feeling. “Tommy already talked to my insurance company. You’ll love the new Lexus. It’s got more horse—”
“Bertolino!” Jack heard after the ding of the elevator door whooshing open.
“Christ.”
It was Tim Dykstra, the mayor’s security chief.
“You’re one slippery dude,” Dykstra said as he pushed through the crowded lobby and walked up to the couple. And then mock deferentially, “DDA Sager.”
Dykstra stepped too close to Leslie, who wasn’t a fan; extended his hand, which she shook; and side-passed the restraining order to Jack, who wanted to punch the guy out but accepted the document.
“So, you’re served. You know the drill: fifty yards away from Malic al-Yasiri and Raul Vargas, their persons and dwellings, and you are not to harass the aggrieved parties or anyone else in their families or on their staff.”
“Later,” Jack said to Leslie, and started out.
“Not done. Speaking of number one son, have you seen him around?”
“Haven’t had the displeasure.”
“I learn otherwise, you’re going down, wiseguy.”
Jack wasn’t going to take crap. He took a step toward Dykstra, who puffed out his chest and stood tall in the safety of police headquarters.
“Jack . . .” Leslie warned.
“Raul’s gone missing,” Dykstra said to Leslie. “Didn’t show up for work this morning, isn’t answering his phone. Missed a meeting for the gala. You get your invite, Jack?” An ugly smile oozed from his smug face. “Oh, that’s right, you’re persona non grata. You’ve managed to piss off every political ally you ever had.”
Then to Leslie, “You must be proud. Your boyfriend’s a real career-ender.”
Jack lunged and Dykstra jumped back a step, grinning as he walked around him toward the thick glass front doors.
“I’ll see you tomorrow night.” He directed it over his shoulder at Leslie as he exited the building.
Leslie turned on Jack, red-faced.
“Really, Jack? You were going to punch Dykstra out in the lobby of police headquarters? He might be a major asshole, but really? Are you the only person in the room that you care about?” she asked incredulously.
Jack took a deep breath, wishing he could disappear. Embarrassed by his lack of restraint.
“You’ve got anger issues, Jack. And the control of a sixteen-year-old.”
Leslie knew this wasn’t the time or the place to continue the conversation and followed in Dykstra’s wake.
Jack watched Leslie’s receding figure, knowing she was right, and pushed his emotions to the side. If Raul Vargas was truly missing and not sleeping off a drunk, Jack was traversing some rocky shoals.
He might have to take down his client along with the perp.
41
Jack was driving his second rental car of the week. He went to Hertz because Enterprise wouldn’t accept the liability on another premium car. Jack had a bad risk profile, they said. Couldn’t blame them, he thought. His Mustang wouldn’t be out of the shop for another day, and so Jack chose a fully loaded Blue Mica Lexus IS F. Might as well keep things interesting. With a V-8 and 416 horses, Jack hoped he could stay ahead of the trouble. His phone was paired to the car’s Bluetooth and the GPS would get him where he needed to go.
Jack pulled out of the underground parking and was immediately caught in heel-to-toe downtown traffic. So much for 416 horses, he thought. The phone rang.
“So I rattled his cage. I didn’t mention Angelica, but he’s feeling the heat. I gave him a lot to think about,” was Nick’s opening gambit. No hello, none needed.
“Did you get anything out of Mustafa?”
“Negativo. Deaf and dumb. His ‘suit’ was sitting next to him in the hospital room and kept shaking his head. Our man Mustafa zipped it up tighter than a boll weevil’s ass.”
“Very graphic. And the girl?”
“Nothing.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah, so, after the interview with Mustafa, the lawyer escorted the sweet young thing out and away with a promise to deliver her if we had any more questions. Gallina was apoplectic, but immigration had signed off on it. Are your guys sitting on the compound?”
“We’ve got it covered. I’ve got them taking down license numbers and comparing them to the list we made at the club. He’s moved in at least eight of his men. They come and go. One at the guard shack and roving security at night. He
’s got a guesthouse the size of a hotel.”
“Doesn’t seem right.”
“I’m crying for him. So, I hear Raul is MIA,” Jack said.
“Don’t I know it. They found his car at Paradise Cove, unlocked. He never made it home.”
“Maybe he got lucky and was too wasted to drive.”
“The bartender reported he was feeling no pain, but he left the bar alone. Doesn’t mean he didn’t meet someone in the parking lot. Security camera doesn’t shoot a frame that wide. Some uniforms interviewed a few of the neighbors who live in the double-wides up on the cliff, but no one saw dick. Whatta you think?”
“I think the prick’s getting more attention in twelve hours than the dead girls got in a month. I don’t like where this is heading.”
“I know where you’re going with this. But don’t jump to conclusions. A long list of people have him in their sights.”
“What was your take on al-Yasiri?”
“Piece of work. He’s like the head of the snake. Kinda guy that walks around with a smile on his face while he’s gutting you. Always looking for an exit play.”
“I feel like I’m running on empty. I’ve got to get inside the compound.”
Nick’s tone shifted. “You’re looking at jail time.”
“And Angelica Cardona’s looking at a grave. You mind reaching out to Dick Trammel?”
“What do you need?”
“Cruz said it’s something called a negative pulse disrupter. He also called it an EMP. Says I slap it on the main computer, it scrambles everything in the house and the security cameras on the system go belly-up. I can cut the juice leading into the compound. Cruz has that in pocket. It’s shutting off the computer systems that might be tied into an auxiliary power source I need help with. I’ll need some time to get in and out of there in one piece.”
“Time frame?”
“An hour max. Eight to nine. When Malic is tuxed up and basking in the limelight.”
“I don’t like the odds.”
“A pair of night-vision goggles wouldn’t hurt.”
“Trammel drinks Macallan.”