Inside Moves

by Walter Danley

  “Listen, Greg, I’m on my way to see Dr. Fitz at UCLA. Why don’t you stay and get the rest of the details from Renato? He should be back soon. He needed a haircut, but in Beverly Hills they call it a styling.” Wainwright chuckled. “I hope you don’t mind me splitting on you, but truthfully, man, I’m fried.”

  Greg made himself comfortable in Wainwright’s condo. With a soft drink in hand, he read the one magazine he could find that wasn’t connected with writing fiction. It was a copy of Better Homes and Gardens, but it would do. When he heard Wilson open the front door, he stood and said, “Renato, hi.”

  “Hey, Greg.” Wilson walked in with a noticeable limp. “What a delight to find the federal government here to welcome me home.” He looked around. “Where’s Garth?”

  “He went to UCLA to see Dr. Fitz.” Greg paused. “So how’s the leg? Wait—forget I asked.” He quickly changed the subject. “Say, that’s some good-looking hairdo you have. What do they charge for that in BH?”

  “Much more than the barbershop in Boston, but man, if you could see the spectacular beauty who cut my hair—wow. She goes by the name of Shotgun.”

  “Shotgun? Oh, right. I get it, double-barreled, huh?”

  Wilson laughed. “You’re way too crude. No, I asked her. It’s because she’s four foot ten. Get it? Shotgun? As in .410, the smallest shotgun gauge? Are you with me here?”

  “Yeah, but that’s more information than I need about your tonsorial splendor. What I do need, though, is the straight skinny on what went down with you guys and Amiti in Mexico.”

  “That’s a long story. After sitting in Shotgun’s chair, I could use a bit of exercise. How about we walk down to the Harbor Inn?”

  They strolled the few blocks to the local pub and grabbed a table. After their burgers and drinks were served, Greg said, “Let me set a few rules for this beer-bar banter, okay? I’d like you to give me the story without editing it for the government. First, I’m just Greg, not ASAC Mulholland. Next, this conversation goes no further than Wainwright and my wife. I’ll never keep any secrets from them. Do you agree?”

  “I do.” Raising his mug of beer, Wilson said, “Here’s to Mexico.”

  “Fine, now what happened in Monterrey?”

  Wilson gave Greg a blow-by-blow description of everything that happened, including the thirty minutes or so he had spent impersonating a pretzel behind the casita. Wilson couldn’t seem to talk without waving his hands and arms around—stabbing a period here, smoothing an adjective there. Greg had to duck the arm assault several times in the telling.

  When Wilson finished, Greg had questions. His eyes narrowed. “So even though Amiti coldcocked you, you think this guy is okay? He played straight with both of you?”

  “Amiti is a paid killer, no question about that, and he makes no excuses for what he does. By reputation, he does what he does really well and deserves the rep. I hate to put it to you this way, but I learned to like the guy over the course of our adventure. He’s honest, has a high sense of morality, and his ethics, as he defines them, are vital to him. He doesn’t violate the rules by which he operates.

  “His client, a man he has refused to name, hired him to kill Murtagh and his chain of command. I applaud his efforts. In fact, both Garth and I volunteered to help him after we didn’t find Lacey at the Monterrey hacienda. We geared up and went for Murtagh on his yacht, which is no more, by the way. Neither are the seven thugs and four crewmen who fought with us. Hey Greg, it was classic self-defense, so stuff your arrest warrant back in your jeans, okay? The wanton destruction of Murtagh’s eighteen-million-dollar boat was thrown in for good measure.”

  Greg leaned in closer over the table. “Do you think we can rely on him, unofficially that is, to help us find Lacey?”

  Wilson nodded. “I do.”

  “So Amiti’s on our team then?”

  “Unofficially.”

  Greg flagged down the waitress for two more beers. “Let me run down the report Garth asked me to get on Stanley Chambers, Boston portfolio manager.”

  “Should I take notes?”

  “Wilson, you’re a former cop and a trained investigator. If you can’t remember the stuff I’m about to tell you, then maybe you should consider working as a crosswalk guard. Ready?”

  Wilson nodded.

  “Chambers has worked for Boston Benevolent Insurance for fifteen years. Education wise, he has a PhD in a finance discipline from a third-tier university in Vermont. He’s the only child of an upper-middle-class family that’s lived in Boston for decades. He’s never married and spends most of what he earns. His income includes zero royalties from the seven published business textbooks nobody buys. His credit is above average. He owns a home in the ’burbs and is a member of the Republican Club of Boston. He’s also listed as a member of three service organizations: Elks, Kiwanis, and Rotary Club. Here’s the kicker, though...” He trailed off when the waitress came by, set their beers down, and took their empty glasses.

  “Well, Mr. Chambers sounds like a most boring and upstanding fellow. I’ll bet Wainwright will be happy his buddy is clean.”

  “I didn’t say ‘clean.’ Chambers has been arrested three times on suspicion of having sex with a minor. And twice for patronizing a prostitute. There were no convictions.”

  “Wow,” Wilson said, shaking his head, “talk about getting a lucky break. How could the cops screw up so many times?”

  “The cops didn’t screw up—the judge did. The same judge dismissed five separate charges on technical issues.”

  “I think you just hit the jackpot, Greg. Who is this ultra-fair, lenient judge?”

  “You won’t believe it. Nathaniel Starr, Carson Starr’s brother and former law partner. Now how do you see Mr. Clean?”

  CARSON STARR RARELY arrived at his office before nine, but today he did. He wasn’t sure what he’d do to stem this potential crisis. Starr realized it had to be done from his seat of power, whatever those actions turned out to be.

  “Good morning, Mr. Starr.” Dorothy, his legal secretary poked her head through his office doorway. “Would you like a cup of coffee? Fresh brewed, just now.”

  “Thanks, no. Hey, get me Zack Grandy on my private line, will you? And if he’s not in, leave word for him to call me ASAP.”

  Dorothy started to leave.

  “And find out where he is so you can reach him for me.”

  Starr is upset about something. Well, isn’t he always? Dorothy thought. Yes, but this is different. He’s upset and nervous, and while upset is his SOP, the boss is never nervous. She went to her desk and placed the call to the DA of Suffolk County, Massachusetts.

  She returned to Starr’s office and told him she’d left a message for Grandy. His assistant had said he had gone out for lunch but wasn’t sure where.

  “Dorothy, go down to the newsstand and pick up all the out-of-town papers they have, and hurry. This is important.”

  Dutiful Dorothy took the elevator to the building’s lobby. Starr’s longtime administrative assistant walked across the plaza to the newsstand. An old man in a wheelchair had run the kiosk for the seventeen years Dorothy had worked in the building. But his name was unknown to her; she had never asked. All those years of seeing him, buying things he sold, and she didn’t know the man’s name. “Good morning Mr....Sorry, what’s your name?”

  “Danny, jus’ call me Danny. What kin I get for ya dis mornin’?”

  “I’d like a copy of all your out-of-town newspapers, Danny.”

  “Right char, Miss.” The old man wheeled over to the newspapers and selected them for her.

  “Danny, my name’s Dorothy. We’ve been doing business here for so long, I’m embarrassed I’ve never asked you your name before. But I won’t forget it.”

  Danny grinned, revealing his nicotine-stained teeth. “Here ya are, miss. I’ll slip ’em in a plastic sack for ya. Will there be anythin’ else, Dorothy?”

  Dorothy handed him the bills. “Please keep the rest, and thank you
for your help, Danny. You have a beautiful day. I’ll see you later. Bye-bye.”

  She left the kiosk to deliver the papers to Starr, feeling better about herself on the return trip than she had when she left.

  “Here are the papers you asked for, Mr. Starr,” she said, holding them out for him.

  “What? Oh, yes.”

  Starr took the sack from her hands without thanking or acknowledging her in any way.

  As Dorothy turned to leave, she thought, the poor man offers kindness to everyone, while the rich one uses rudeness to hide from the world. More than pleased with her philosophical self, Dorothy sat down at her desk with a satisfied smile.

  The last paper was The San Francisco Examiner. Starr scanned it for the news he expected to find. At home, he’d already read the Los Angeles Times. He scanned The New York Times and The Wall Street Journal at his office. So far, only the LA Times had carried the story. It was a local story but somewhat sensational, which was why he thought he might find it in the other publications. His intercom buzzed. “Yes, Dorothy?”

  “Mr. Grandy is returning your call on your private line, sir.”

  Starr pushed the button, cutting Dorothy off. “Zack, the LA Times ran a feature story on Lacey Wainwright this morning,” he began. “They’ve been sitting on this for sixty-five days, according to the piece. That’s how long Lacey’s been missing...Yes, I know you know how long she’s been gone—we both do—but that’s not why I’m concerned. The reporter has a CI...What? Oh, all right, a confidential informant. Feel better now, Mr. DA? Anyway, the reporter’s CI says Lacey was kidnapped by Marcos Murtagh...No, it didn’t say where she’s being held.

  “What? For Christ’s sake, let me finish and I’ll tell you, all right? The supposition is Murtagh took her out of the wreck that night and...How would I know? In a crash like that, people die. Apparently in this case, they both lived...Would you please stop interrupting me? Murtagh has been keeping Lacey in different pl...Yes, yes, moving her around, even different countries, apparently...What difference does it make what countries? I don’t have any idea, nor do I give a damn! Listen to me. We...Yes, I just said that...we’ll both be exposed to Murtagh if Lacey told him anything.

  “You sonuvabitch, you know exactly what I’m...Damn it, Zack, this isn’t...Call me at home—no, don’t; I won’t be there tonight. I’ve got something here on my calendar, so...You bet you can do something. Get that goon in your crosshairs and blow Murtagh’s head off! Later, brother.”

  ZACK GRANDY PUT HIS phone down and slumped in his chair. Why now, damn it? Why rock the boat now? Easy for Carson to sit out in sunny California and scream at me on the phone. Why doesn’t he do something about it himself?

  As district attorney, Zack Grandy could have Murtagh blown into his next life, and it would be legal. But how would he locate the bastard??

  “Sylvia, please come in here.”

  Geez. What’s with all the panic around here this morning? Sylvia wondered, as she got up from her desk to answer her “master’s” call. “Yes, Zack. What’s up?”

  “Where’s Wilson? He hasn’t responded to the messages I left on his answering machine at home, and his secretary is on vacation. For God’s sake, it’s May, not August. What’s going on with my staff?”

  “Well, his secretary has taken two weeks’ vacation. Same as Renato—on vacation. We do that here, ’cause when he’s gone, there isn’t any other place for her to work. Renato asked for the time off with HR, and you approved it, remember? Can I do something for you, boss?”

  Grandy shook his head. “No, never mind. Wait—yes, there is. Get me the chief on the phone.”

  “Chief? Which one? Fire, police—”

  “I want Chief Thomas Flannery of the Boston PD and right away.”

  “Yes, sir!” Sylvia saluted him then turned and walked to her desk to make the call.

  “Tom, glad I could get a hold of you,” Grandy said, once the chief was on the line. “Hey, what do your people have on this mug Marcos Murtagh? Yeah, I’d appreciate that. No, you don’t need to messenger it. Interdepartment mail is okay...Well, I’m interested because the LA Times ran a story this morning about him holding Lacey Kinkaid as a hostage...Yes, that’s her...You bet, one of the best ADAs this office ever had...Yes, she did leave to work for JLS, in fact. Carson called me this morning when he read the story. Well, look, Tom, thanks for sending the file. If you have any way of getting this mutt to my picnic, please feel free...Right, I will. Bye, Tom.”

  FEW PEOPLE KNEW OF Marcos Murtagh’s obsession with old Hollywood. His interest in those who made the movies world famous was intense. One person who knew and shared his mania was a high-school pal who had grown up to be one of St. Louis’s top residential real estate brokers, always with an ear for a deal. One fine spring day, he had learned some news that could result in a huge score. A visit to Marion, Illinois, was what he needed to move the ball down the court. He told Murtagh the estate of silent film director Wolfgang Krantz was going on the block. With that, he had Murtagh’s undivided attention.

  The prize of the upcoming auction was his 1927 home on Kings Road in West Hollywood. Murtagh, especially attracted to it because it was built the year he was born, didn’t hesitate to give his old pal an over-list price offer. He had to have it! After winning the auction, his friend arranged for additions and upgrades on behalf of his imprisoned client.

  After he was released Murtagh couldn’t wait to play with his new toy. He set about having his people make the move as soon as the remodel work was complete. Krantz had had the Kings Road house built at the height of his directorial domination of the new media. His was the first property developed north of the dirt road affectionately named Sunset Boulevard. Krantz, a neurotic personality with antisocial, reclusive tendencies, had bought six lots fronting Kings Road. These parcels, high in the Hollywood Hills, extended to Sweetzer Avenue to the east. A high iron fence surrounded the three-and-a-half-acre tree-sheltered site. This assured him privacy and security in the days long before those things became film-land necessities.

  Krantz had constructed the house with a full basement, one of the few properties in LA built with one. He needed the basement and had installed special equipment there. It was a continuing rumor in the film business that Krantz and his industry pals satisfied fetishes and deviant desires in that basement. Murtagh didn’t know if those stories were true, but one of the rooms where wannabe starlets once visited would be Lacey Wainwright’s domicile. Of course, that meant another move for this beauty in bondage.

  Murtagh moved into his Kings Road home on Sunday, June thirteenth, fifty-five years to the day that Krantz had moved in. It continued to be the largest, most luxurious house in the hills. Murtagh required privacy and security for many of the same reasons Krantz had and for a few reasons of his own. Associates called it the Hollywood Hills House, or just 3-H. To his neighbors it was Murtagh’s Mansion.

  Although the property had been well maintained by the Krantz estate, it required a few modifications for Murtagh’s use. The costliest was reinforcing the apartments over the garage for helicopter landings.

  Murtagh had many of his favorite belongings in the house by late May, ordering certain things moved from Monterrey and his place in St. Louis. A collector of early films and a fanatical fan of those who directed them, he had hired a Hollywood film lab to transfer his extensive thirty-five-millimeter film collection to the Betamax video format. He was confident his efforts would preserve and protect his collection forever. The St. Louis house became a hangout and dormitory for the Missouri mob. Murtagh would never again enter it.

  LACEY WAS UNCONSCIOUS, drugged by Murtagh’s thugs so she wouldn’t fight when they moved her from the yacht. They used Ketalar, a drug administered IM that worked fast, produced sedation for twenty-five minutes, and had few lingering aftereffects. Lacey awoke in a small room that wasn’t even as nice as a cell. A cell might have a window. The space measured three paces wide by almost six the other way. She estimat
ed her pace length at thirty inches, so that made the area seven and a half feet by fifteen. Compared to a standard bedroom or a dining room, that was an odd size. I wonder what this room was before, she thought.

  Lacey depersonalized the rotating Murtagh crew by thinking of them as “they.” They had provided her a small camp cot. At the room’s far end, a chemical toilet like those you see at a county fair or a construction site faced her. Lacey was sure the chemical smell permeating the air in the windowless room was what had woken her.

  She examined the space that would be her home for as long as Murtagh deemed it to be. There was one kitchen chair with a padded seat and chrome legs, along with a small table. The cell contained a sink with running water, but they had removed the hot-water handle. The sink was on the opposite short wall, fifteen feet away from the chemical toilet. How thoughtful.

  Lacey had been hauled around in the trunks of cars, on a jet plane, on a boat, and most recently, a helicopter for...How long has it been? She had no concept of time, and her disorientation was beginning to affect her other senses. Well, not all of them. She sure smelled that toilet.

  The room reminded her of Uncle Timothy’s basement. The “happy room,” where he would take her to “play.” Lacey lay on the cot, staring at the water-stained concrete ceiling. Over the past months, it seemed as though she had looked up at many stained things above her head; she had little else to occupy her active mind. She shivered, remembering how Delilah had sought escape from that Beacon Hill hellhole.

  She felt as though it had just happened. After Uncle Timothy had returned her from New Hampshire to his mansion, he had put Lacey in his basement for several hours. This was her punishment for running away to the Travis home. She had cried herself out and had no tears left when Delilah had appeared in the locked room. Delilah knew everything that had happened to her. Lacey soon realized that Delilah would materialize whenever Lacey needed her. “I have an idea that will set us free,” Delilah had told her. “We can do it right now.”