Inside Moves

by Walter Danley

  “Garth, who did you talk to once you learned about the yacht plan?” Greg asked.

  “Not a soul. Wilson and I were out of the country for thirteen days. It took us that long to get into Mexico, do our dirty deeds, and fly back. I had no contact outside of Renato, Amiti, José, Rudy, and the Vasquez cousins. That was it.”

  Greg leaned back in his seat. “What do you know about the Vasquez’s?”

  “Well, neither Renato nor I ever had any direct contact with them. They drove the Zodiacs while we were five hundred feet in the air above and aft of them. It is possible, though, that the Vasquez cousins could have alerted the yacht that we were coming. If that’s true, I’ll bet money Amiti didn’t know he had a traitor on his crew.”

  “Murtagh spreads money around like jam on toast,” Greg said. “He’d easily be able to buy one or both of the Vasquezes.”

  Wilson rested his head with an elbow on his knee and his chin in his palm. He picked up the thread. “Or it could have been Rudy or José. And while we had no direct contact with the Vasquez cousins, they knew the plan. All of it. They were informed about the timing so they could drive the Zodiacs. I vote for one of them.”

  “What are their first names?” Stacy asked. “There was a Vasquez family in Southie when I lived there. They were brothers, not cousins, but these kids ran with Murtagh’s guys. I have no idea if they were made men or not, but they were what law enforcement calls ‘known associates.’”

  “I don’t remember their names. Do you, Renato?”

  “Be that as it may,” Wainwright said, “if it was the Vasquez cousins, or Rudy or José—one or both of them—they’ll more than likely stay isolated in Mexico. Our immediate problem is right here. We need to determine whether our mole is Collette.”

  “What if this place is bugged?” Stacy asked. “Greg, is there any way to have the place swept right away? That would put a pin on the donkey’s tail for sure.”

  Greg stood up and reached for the phone. He spoke to a few people then hung up several minutes later. “They tested the line and you’ve been bugged,” he whispered to Wainwright. “My office has neutralized the bugs on this line, so that’s no longer a problem. A crew is on the way to sweep the rest of the condo for other devices.”

  Wilson said, “Can I suggest we eat before any more discussions take place? We can talk after the sweep.”

  And they did. Everyone converged in the kitchen to watch Wilson finish preparing Eggs à la Wilson, his specialty dish. Served with fresh fruit and champagne, it was a major hit.

  When the FBI crew finished sweeping the condo, they removed three sophisticated listening devices from the many levels of Wainwright’s home.

  “These are military-grade bugs, not what a typical consumer could buy,” Vince Wagner, the FBI crew chief, told Wainwright. “Someone had to have stolen these from a military installation—either that or the army or navy is spying on you.” He turned to Greg. “That makes the bugging a federal offense and right back in your lap, Agent Mulholland.”

  “Obtain a warrant for the arrest of Collette Haggerty and serve it right away. Mr. Wainwright will provide her address for you. Thanks, Vince, for your quick response.”

  Wainwright retrieved Collette’s address from Lacey’s Day-Timer. After the FBI left, he slumped into the sofa. Stacy sat down next to him. “Thanks, Stacy, for all your help,” he said. “Any idea where I can find a new housekeeper?”

  SEAN QUINN, EVER THE gracious host, welcomed Bea and Bailey into his home. Bailey wore a lightweight cream-colored sport coat, a black open-neck shirt, and black trousers. It was BJ, however, who should have received the red-carpet award. Her dark tan contrasted beautifully with her hot-pink low-cut sundress. It was short enough to show off her shapely legs above a pair of high-heeled sandals in the same color. The narrow hot-pink ribbon around her lovely long neck put a sexy spin on her dress. Quinn was looking forward to an entertaining evening: let the show begin.

  “Why don’t we have a cocktail in the library before dinner? Please walk this way.”

  The three moved into Quinn’s expansive, ornate library—a room lined from the floor to the twelve-foot-high ceiling with the finest of cabinetry. Metal, glass, and exotic hardwoods had merged into artistically utilitarian objects: bookcases, desks, tables, even a hanging planter. These furnishings were a dynamic demonstration of the cabinetmaker’s art and a veritable commercial for the artistic talents of Quinn Industries.

  “Like it?” he asked, gesturing expansively.

  Scanning the room, Amiti said, “‘Like it’ is a gross understatement, my friend. This woodwork is spectacular, the workmanship exquisite, and the quality is perfect to the nth degree. I’ve seen the finest libraries in Europe and Asia, but none of them compare to this workmanship. I’m so glad you shared this beautiful room with us. Thank you.”

  BJ had walked to the long wall opposite the entry door, giving her an opportunity to strut. She ran a manicured finger along the woodwork as she glided over to a glass door case. “What are all these gorgeous trophies for, Sean?

  Quinn, mesmerized by BJ’s beauty, answered the wrong question, smiling dumbly. “Well, you’re welcome. Oh, I mean thanks. Those are state fair trophies we’ve won. I’m so happy you came to visit this ol’ carpenter’s favorite room. Now please make yourself comfy.” He gestured to the housekeeper. “Rosemary here will bring us our drinks. What’s your pleasure?”

  They relaxed with cocktails and small talk, in which the lonely Quinn was only too pleased to participate. In due time he brought up a subject he’d been puzzling over.

  “I wanted to tell you about my broker from Boston, Stanley Chambers,” he began. “He’s in LA, but it’s strange, the reason he’s in town. He came all the way out here to help find the niece of an old pal of his. She’s gone missing, and Stanley, well, he’s worried enough to fly to LA at the drop of a sombrero. He said he’d stop in and say hello before going back. Now what does a smart guy like you make of that, Bailey?”

  Amiti put on a blank face. “I’m sorry, Sean, but I fail to see a problem with what you’ve said.”

  Quinn leaned back in the leather sofa and took a sip of his bourbon. “No? Well, it turns out my good buddy, Stanley, does business with some of the same folks as your Don Fuentes. He must be very civic minded to spend the money to be here, help in the search, and let his business coast while he’s away. I’m guessing all this is because the little lady he’s here to find is my lawyer, Lacey Kinkaid. Now what does all that add up to for you, Bailey?”

  “Sorry, Sean, but I’m a bit confused. Why do you assume I’m concerned in any way with this Kinkaid woman?”

  “Now, Bailey, don’t be that way with ol’ Sean. I’ve been speaking with Don Fuentes. The good don told me you’ve been looking for the wife of your pal Garth Wainwright. So like the man says, the cat’s out of the bag.”

  Amiti shared an imperceptible glance with BJ before replying. “Sean, it seems you’ve innocently stumbled onto my pal’s private problem. This rescue attempt is supposed to be a small isolated arrangement, but it appears a larger group has access to the details. By my count, you make number seven.”

  Quinn shook his head. “No, I haven’t drawn that lucky number. You’ve neglected the researcher who told Stanley, and Stanley also said the DA is a coming. He’s partnering with my golf pal, Carson Starr. And you need to include Don Fuentes too, since he gave you the information in the first place. Now, if I’ve counted correctly, that would make me last in line and another lucky number: eleven.”

  “Yes, it would appear there are eleven informed individuals,” Amiti said. “The question is why? Why do all these people need to know about this rescue mission?”

  “Well,” Quinn said with a mirthless grin, “I’ll betcha my next paycheck you do know, so how about leveling with this ol’ carpenter?”

  []

  FOURTEEN

  AMITI HAD GIVEN WAINWRIGHT the information regarding Lacey’s location. And a bunch of other
s also knew it. The predawn of Monday, June twenty-eighth was about to witness a circus of good intentions that, by all reasonable logic, could in no way succeed.

  Amiti did his best to convince Quinn that the rescue had to be a small operation. Too many people already knew. His concern was for the success of the operation as well as the team’s safety. He was going to alert Wainwright so he’d change the plans, but then he decided on a different plan altogether.

  Grandy and Starr didn’t give a damn about rescuing Lacey. They were committed to killing her and destroying the incriminating photos. Sean Quinn’s investment guru, Stanley Chambers, had the same goals for the exact same reasons. Neither Grandy nor Starr would recognize Chambers, nor he them. All shared the fear that the photos of child rape would destroy their careers, their families, and their lives. The only solution was to get rid of the photos and dispose of their now-grown victim.

  Not everyone wanted Lacey dead. Wilson definitely wanted to bag Murtagh and bring Lacey home. During the time he had worked with Wainwright, he had become fully invested in her safe rescue.

  Amiti had two motives: 1) to keep Lacey out of his path as he hunted Murtagh and his ilk; and 2) to return Lacey so Quinn would finally close the deal with the don. Wainwright wanted Lacey recovered safely from Murtagh, but Amiti was still under the impression that he had no real emotional commitment to it. He was unaware of Wainwright’s emotional flip-flopping after Stacy’s confession.

  That was the rub. Amiti was unsure whether he could count on Wainwright’s committed performance. And to further mess with his head, Amiti knew from talking to Quinn that more people planned on jumping into the rescue. Wainwright knew of only three people going into the Kings Road mansion early Monday morning. But another three would be coming to the party, and all of those wanted Lacey dead.

  AMITI AND BJ BID QUINN an early adieu. Amiti returned BJ to their bungalow and Don Fuentes’s Bentley to the hotel’s garage. Amiti didn’t like the idea of all those people converging on Murtagh’s mansion. He abhorred working with amateurs or, for that matter, working with anyone. The Assassin would excuse himself from Wainwright’s planning meeting and go into the Kings Road house alone.

  The Beverly Hills Hotel was less than three miles west of where Kings Road crossed Sunset Boulevard. Amiti chose to walk to Murtagh’s to avoid having a strange car appear in the neighborhood. Walking also would give time to plan his assault. But he needed a way to conceal his operational tools so they wouldn’t attract attention on the busy boulevard. An impromptu solution was to use a guitar case to carry and conceal his weapons. Earlier that evening, Amiti had acquired it from a street musician playing for tips in front of a Sunset restaurant. He had handed the guitarist two one-hundred-dollar bills, picked up the open case, and dumped the few bills and coins it contained into the musician’s lap. “Thank you,” he’d told the stunned but happy musician.

  Amiti reconnoitered Murtagh’s property at a little after midnight. He intended to have both of his jobs completed before Wainwright and Wilson showed up. After tracking along the fence line at the rear of Murtagh’s property, he opened the guitar case to change into camouflage clothing amid a small grove of eucalyptus trees. There, he prepared his cache of weapons. As he did these things, he once again took on the mind-set of the Assassin.

  Murtagh was his target, the completion of his client’s contract his goal. The Assassin would face Murtagh’s mob in the Kings Road armed camp alone. He had time on his side, time to watch and plan. Time to exploit the advantage of surprise.

  The eucalyptus trees were more than fifty feet tall and would provide an excellent observation post. The Assassin climbed up one, where he could peer over the roof of Murtagh’s mansion. From this vantage point, he could see both side yards, the back part of the house, as well as Kings Road and most of the lengthy driveway.

  Amiti had been in the tree a short time when Henry and Collette left 3-H to pick up burgers and fries for the crew. Murtagh never ate with his men, but there were still eleven other large appetites at the mansion, plus Collette and Henry. As they took a left down Kings Road, Henry was trying to count how many burgers he should order. This seemed to be a complicated calculation.

  Collette interrupted his ponderous predicament. “We shoulda called in the order. It’s gonna take a long time to cook up thirty double doubles and fifteen orders of fries. Shouda called.”

  “How’d you come up with that count, Collette?”

  “Aaah, Henry. I jus’ figured we’d each want—”

  Henry’s eyes narrowed, and he pounded the rim of the steering wheel. “You bein’ a smartass, Collette? ‘cause I don’t tolerate no smartass girls.”

  This trip was Henry’s second errand today. Earlier, Murtagh had sent him to pick up a package over the hill in Studio City. He didn’t tell Henry what he was picking up, but Henry knew. The whole crew knew the Studio City guy made bombs. But it was anyone’s guess what the boss planned to do with a bomb. The only other time Murtagh had used that particular device was when his mob had taken out a rival gang from the Mexican mafia. These guys had been encroaching on some of Murtagh’s territory, bringing in their own supplies of coke and weed. Small-time stuff, sure, but you can’t let something like that get out of hand. You need to quickly address a wrong and make it right. The bomb blew the restaurant to the foundation where this offshoot of the Sinaloa Cartel often met. The Sinaloas never again sent anyone into Murtagh’s territory.

  Pulling into the fast-food drive-through, Henry remembered the bomb was still in his trunk. Despite his lack of math skills, he was no dummy. Whatever the boss wanted with a bomb was a mystery, but Henry knew to handle bombs gently. He had it cradled in blankets like a newborn baby and surrounded it with four bags of ice. He didn’t know if the ice was a meaningful safety measure, but he knew it sure couldn’t hurt.

  THE ASSASSIN WATCHED Henry’s AMC Concord return. He left his high perch and moved north. He stayed close to the fence line, where landscaping concealed his movements. He carried an array of trade tools: his crossbow, a quiver of razor-sharp bolts strapped to his left hip, and a fifteen-shot .45 caliber pistol on his right. As always, his Mossad attack knife rested in its upside-down shoulder scabbard. The Assassin’s modified Remington 700 BDL, chambered to the 7.62mm NATO round, was strapped across his back. Dressed in cammies, the Assassin was close to invisible.

  But he was seen.

  Lacey stood at the second-floor guestroom window, looking down at the pool. Although she didn’t recognize the camouflaged intruder, she knew his presence signaled the start of the rescue Collette had told her about. Garth and his men are coming, she thought. I need to help them.

  She left the window and opened the door. After peeking into the hallway and finding it empty, she slunk out of the room.

  STANLEY CHAMBERS DISCOVERED that finding your way around West Hollywood was very different from navigating the city of Boston. He’d gotten lost twice. Chambers parked his rented Nissan Maxima across the street from the Murtagh mansion, blocking the driveway of the house on that side. He sat there for a minute, trying to reason his next move, when Henry and Collette returned. They keyed the remote, and the gates guarding the driveway opened. Considering this a sign from above, Chambers quickly exited his vehicle and stealthily walked through the closing gates and up the long driveway.

  WHEN THEY LEFT THE condo, Wainwright drove Wilson’s rented van, the renter riding shotgun. Although they were surprised and disappointed that Amiti was a no-show, they still planned to mount their rescue operation. Their strategy was to park on Sweetzer and approach the house from the rear. That would have been a good plan, but they couldn’t find a parking space on Sweetzer.

  Plan B: park on Sunset and walk up the steep, twisting Sweetzer hill. They tried to shorten the hike by skirting through adjacent properties. And that change of plan turned to the pair’s advantage. This path brought Wainwright and Wilson to the eucalyptus grove and Amiti’s guitar case with his street clothes, but th
e Assassin was gone.

  AS SO OFTEN HAPPENS with impromptu plans, the Assassin had spent too much time casing the property when he saw Wainwright and Wilson following his tracks from the back. He had moved north along the outside of the fence line near the pool. He was sure they hadn’t seen him yet; as they approached his position, he rasped out in a whisper, “Hey, cowboy. Shhh! In the bushes, over here.”

  Wainwright responded in kind. “What the heck are you doing?”

  “Same as you lads, I’d suspect. Wainwright, remember when we started this association in Mexico? I told you I wanted Murtagh. If the rescue of your wife didn’t become an encumbrance, then I’d help with that as well.”

  “Okay, got it. But what were you doing in the bushes?”

  Amiti shrugged. “Hiding.”

  “No, seriously.”

  “Didn’t like that one, huh? Then try reconnoitering the setup so I’d know where to go and when. Better?”

  “Better. Why didn’t you show up at the condo? Tell me, what’s the plan?”

  The Assassin spent the next few minutes whispering everything he had seen from his eagle perch. He explained the plan of attack he had developed after seeing Murtagh’s setup. With no better suggestions, Wainwright and Wilson agreed to put his plan in motion.

  Amiti’s plan began with Wilson, who would backtrack to the rear. Amiti would move toward the uphill front of the house, while Wainwright would traverse the downslope front of the property.

  As Wainwright came abreast of the circular motor-court drive, the front door opened and one of the mobsters came out for a smoke. He stood on the porch landing, under the entry lamp, to light his cigarette. Wainwright dropped to his belly behind the court fountain. The thug moved off the landing and out of the light toward Wainwright. Twenty feet, then fifteen, now twelve feet separated the two men.