Wildcase - [Rail Black 02]

by Neil Russell

  “You lost me. Why were you suddenly afraid?”

  “There was this girl a few years ago who got invited to party in Brunei and didn’t come home for like a month. She couldn’t remember what had been done to her, but she got a lawyer and got paid off. In my world, everybody knows the story. Well, before we left, Lucille said if we tried that with these guys, they’d cut off our heads and feed us to the tigers.”

  “Tigers?”

  “Not a threat you forget. Frankly, she had me with the head part. It was almost like she was trying to keep us from going. But we both needed the money really bad, so it wouldn’t have mattered what she said. It’s like a guy who knows a loan shark. He never intends to borrow from him, but it’s nice to know it’s there, just in case. And, of course, if that’s how you think, just in case always happens.”

  “And what young lady doesn’t have a soft spot for babies?”

  She smiled. “Not to mention the first-class cruise on the way home so you could get yourself together. I don’t recommend mine, though. A little short on casinos and cute cabin boys.”

  “Let me go back to Australia for a moment. This Smithson who spoke to you in Perth, did he mention a company called Parkinson-Lowe Imports?”

  “I don’t think so, but I was still pretty shaken up. And when he told me I was in danger of losing the baby, I didn’t hear much after that.”

  Cheyenne needed a break from talking, so I left Fat Cat to regale her with how he got his name and walked out onto the beach with my phone. It was a beautiful night, and the surf was barely lapping at the sand. I looked off in the direction of the Land Down Under and asked the operator for Parkinson-Lowe Imports again.

  The same young man answered, so I slipped into my dormant, but still passable, British accent. “Foster Smithson, please. Mr. Black calling from London.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Black, we’re just a service.”

  “Oh, yes, it was mentioned that he uses a buffer. This is a bit of an unusual situation. And quite sensitive. Can I bring you into my confidence?”

  I could hear the anticipation half a world away. “You certainly may, sir.”

  “One of our wealthier clients is interested in purchasing an interest in an Australian import company. One with current licenses and excellent contacts in China. Our man does several hundred million pounds a year there, and he’s tired of paying usurious commissions. Mr. Smithson and Parkinson-Lowe were recommended as being quite well-thought-of... and very discreet.” I let that hang there for a moment, then added, “Would you mind holding a moment? I’ve got the prince on the other line.”

  “The prince?”

  I winked with my voice. “Let’s say a prince and leave it at that. We manage some royal assets. I’ll be right back.”

  “While you’re doing that, sir, let me see if I can reach someone at Parkinson-Lowe.”

  I flashed onto call waiting and walked for a while. When I reached the lifeguard station about a hundred yards down the beach, I reconnected. “So sorry,” I said.

  “I completely understand, sir. I have a Mr. Holden on the other line. If you’ll hold, I’ll patch you through.”

  There were a few clicks, and a voice that would have been considered rough even in the Outback said, “Who the fuck is this?”

  “Mr. Black calling from London. Do you represent the owners?”

  “There’s no Parkinson, there’s no Lowe, and there’s no imports, so let’s cut the shit, mate.”

  When in doubt go with the truth. I dropped the accent. “Black’s the right name, but I’m in California. Chuck and Lucille Brando are dead.”

  There was a moment of silence, but not a long one. “You made that point the first time you called. Okay, you’ve told me in person, that it?”

  “You don’t seem surprised.”

  “It’s a dangerous world.”

  “There’s not going to be an envelope this month. Is their account in order, or did they leave outstanding obligations?”

  That stopped him, but only momentarily. “You don’t know shit, do you?”

  Fuck this guy. “Look, friend, I don’t give a fat rat’s ass if you’re dealing coke or hot kangaroo pouches. I’m trying to keep some other people alive, and if I have to run ten kinds of law enforcement up your ass to do it, I will.”

  He didn’t seem impressed, but he didn’t hang up either. “You another one of the Brandos’ cop friends?”

  “Cop, no. Friend, yes. And I don’t like playing catch-up. But Lucille asked me to get involved, and dead women get my attention. Especially ones who were tortured on the way out.”

  “The Brandos are even with the board. No outstanding obligations. My condolences to the next of kin.” He hung up.

  I called the virtual office again, and the same young man answered. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get Mr. Holden’s first name.”

  “Rennie. I had no idea he was involved with the company. He’s a real legend around here.”

  “In what way?”

  “Mr. Holden’s a hunter. Takes people all over the world to shoot big game. Really rich people with expensive guns and private planes. Every kid in Western Australia grows up reading about him. I wonder what he does for Parkinson-Lowe?”

  So did I. The difference was I knew how to find out.

  Jackie Benveniste used to be the State Department’s organized crime guru for the Mediterranean. Now, he’s retired on the hills of Dana Point, a few dozen miles down the coast from where I was standing. Since we’d met, I’d had him and his thirty-year-junior significant other, Nancy, out on the boat a few times, and we’d become good friends.

  I could hear his boxer barking when he picked up. “Give Annie a cookie, you cheapie.”

  “Rail, how the fuck are you? Nance, open another bottle of red and let that crazy mutt out on the patio. She sees that mouse up close, she’ll pee herself.”

  “Sounds like a big night, I’ll make it quick. Rennie Holden. Aussie. Company called Parkinson-Lowe Imports, but I think it’s a dummy.”

  “That part of the world was out of my sphere, but I can make a couple of calls. How soon you need it?”

  “Anybody ever call this late and say, no hurry?”

  He laughed. “Nance is teaching me how to text. That be okay?”

  “Better than okay. New number, though. Got a pen?”

  I went back inside the restaurant and used the head. I was on my way to my table when I saw SAC Huston striding fast toward us. She looked a little the worse for wear, and her face wasn’t hiding her displeasure. Her mouth was open, ready to make some kind of threat, when I said, “I’d like you to meet Cheyenne Rollins.”

  She gave my dinner partner one of those looks professional women reserve for hookers and stay-at-home moms. “Another one of the Rail Black punch crew? I’ll pass.”

  I don’t like rudeness in any guise, but Cheyenne handled it with a grace I wouldn’t have been able to summon. She extended her hand. “I’m really pleased to meet you, Francesca. You’re even more beautiful than I expected.”

  Francesca looked at the offering like it was covered with boils. “I’m sorry, should I know you?”

  “I heard so much about you from Sherry, I almost feel like another sister.”

  Francesca’s entire body went rigid, and her tone turned accusatory. “Have you seen her?”

  “I was with her when she died. In China.”

  The agent sucked in her breath, then staggered. I caught her before she fell and helped her into my side of the booth. The server saw what was happening and hurried over. “Is everything all right?”

  “The lady could use a glass of wine.”

  Francesca shook her head. “Vodka, rocks.”

  I gave her my untouched water, and she took two large gulps.

  “Please,” she said to Cheyenne. “Tell me.”

  An hour and several vodkas later, SAC Houston had left the FBI behind and become almost human. I say almost, because a lingering accusatory tone showed itself ever
y now and then. Cheyenne was too polite to ask the right question, so I did it for her.

  “What did Sherry mean you’d think she blamed you?” I asked.

  I was expecting the pat FBI comeback, “None of your business, asshole,” but she surprised me. “She asked me for a loan, and I turned her down.”

  “We talking lunch money, or rent?” I asked.

  “Thirty-five thousand.”

  “Not likely working for Uncle Sammy, right?”

  Francesca looked at her lap, then at her drink, then out the window. If she’d been interrogating a suspect, she’d have given Special Agent Curtis the signal to hit the guy with another several thousand volts. Finally, she got out, “We owned a piece of property together. My mother’s house in Palm Beach.”

  I don’t know much about Florida, but my Rolls guy is always complaining that the Palm Beach dealership puts the glom on extra cars before they even get off the ship. Cheyenne wasn’t so challenged about Sunshine State real estate. “That has to be three million, minimum.”

  “Seven-five,” Francesca said. “After Dad died, Mom took their savings and got into the stock market. Turned out she had a gift.”

  I tried to throw her a lifeline. “But the house wasn’t liquid.”

  She seemed to need to get all of it out. “My ex was a no-good cheat, but he made up for it by being an earner. My lawyers had enough on him that he settled up without a fight. I wouldn’t have missed $35,000 or ten times it.”

  Cheyenne couldn’t believe it. “Sherry didn’t do drugs. She didn’t even drink. So if she needed money, she really needed it.”

  Tears formed in Francesca’s eyes, but they didn’t fall. “I never asked why.”

  This was one of the things that makes me want to strangle people. I could have let it go, but sometimes you have an obligation to punish the self-righteous. I’ll gladly take my beating on Judgment Day. “Forget what it was for and what you had personally. Why were you in control of the house?”

  “It was in both our names, so I would have had to sign off on a loan.”

  “Would your mother have given her the money?”

  She didn’t even hesitate. “Yes, of course. Mom died from an aggressive form of Alzheimer’s, and that last year was really rough. Sherry moved back to Florida to take care of her. She practically lived at the nursing home.” She paused. “I wanted to be more help, but I was ...”

  “Busy busting people’s asses?”

  Her lip started to tremble. Cheyenne put her hand over Francesca’s. “No,” I commanded, “she’s not finished.”

  Cheyenne jumped at my harshness, but Francesca was so caught up in her own confession she might not have even heard me. “I told her that if she couldn’t find the money anywhere else, I’d see if we could work something out.”

  “In other words, you investment bankered her.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Sure you do. You gave her hope, then dragged your feet. With Wall Street guys, the perverseness is genetic. With individuals, the party line is usually that they’re helping someone become a better person. Sound about right, Francesca?”

  She didn’t answer, so I jammed it in harder. “So when Sherry couldn’t get the money and came back—desperate— you told her no, which was what you always intended to do.”

  She was about to lose her composure. “How do you ...”

  “Because people who can fuck with others’ lives, usually do. And I’ll bet she never once complained about changing your mother’s diapers. I’ll also bet she listened sympathetically to every slight and travail about your tennis-playing prick of a husband.”

  Francesca looked at Cheyenne. “I suppose Sherry told you what a bitch I am.”

  Cheyenne shook her head. “She never said anything but the nicest things. About how important you were, and how smart, and how much she admired you.”

  That was all it took. I’ve never held an FBI agent while she wept, and I wasn’t about to begin with this one. Like all bullies, she disgusted me, and if she’d had a fucking heart attack, I wouldn’t have called the paramedics until she was cold. There was a word for her, and as far as I was concerned, she’d wear it the rest of her life.

  When she pulled herself together, she seemed to want to say something more to Cheyenne. “Did Sherry ... ?” Eventually, she got it out. “Do you know why she needed the money?”

  I looked at the beautiful young lady across the table. After what she’d been through, she didn’t deserve this. Sometimes, though, life just keeps handing out turds to the virtuous. I could tell she knew the answer, but that it would hurt Francesca even more. Cheyenne Rollins was a better person than I.

  “No,” she said, “she never told me.”

  That was when I saw a pack of FBI agents led by Jerk Curtis running toward us, guns drawn. I shook my head as some of them herded the staff and remaining patrons outside while the others crouched and leveled their weapons at us.

  “Keep your hands where I can see them, motherfuckers!” Curtis shouted. He eyed Fat Cat warily. “Who’s this asshole?”

  I looked at SAC Huston. “I thought only SACs used that kind of language.”

  “Shut up,” Curtis shouted. “And hit the floor. All three of you. NOW! Francesca, are you all right?”

  Francesca? Now I was really amused. “Huston, don’t tell me you and Captain Sandpaper are pistol-whipping each other after hours?”

  She turned beet purple. “Everything’s okay. You can stand down.”

  “But I thought...”

  “I made a mistake. I’ll explain later. Leave somebody to drive me and go back to the hotel. I’ll give you a full debrief when I get there.”

  “Pardon me, ma’am, but I don’t think that’s wise. This man...”

  I’d had enough. I stood and put my hands out, wrists together. “Cuff me.” Curtis looked confused. “I mean it,” I said. “Get a pair of cuffs on me, then I’m going to beat you through this place until every piece of furniture is broken. And when there’s nothing left but splinters and pulp, we’re all going down to the Federal Building and explain to the Office of the Inspector General why SAC Huston used a wildcase investigation to pull Department 11 into a personal matter.”

  You could have heard a pin drop.

  * * * *

  39

  Oklahoma Drills and Headphones

  On my way back to Beverly Hills, I called Coggan.

  “We’re just finishing up with Detective Crowe,” he said. “Give me half an hour.”

  Fat Cat had volunteered to escort Cheyenne home, and after what she’d been through, she deserved some easygoing company. After watching him watch her for the past couple of hours, he certainly qualified. He could also field the guaranteed call from Julius and reinforce that I hadn’t destroyed yet another fine young woman. My assurance wouldn’t have been worth the breath it took to offer it.

  I cruised by Tacitus, my favorite eatery—if you can use the word eatery to describe the finest Tuscan food this side of Florence. The valet was on duty but looked ready to bolt, which meant there were stragglers inside, and he had a hot date. I parked at the curb, handed him a twenty-dollar bill and pocketed my keys. I think he was more grateful I hadn’t given him the car than he was for the money. I waved to the lone paparazzo on duty and pushed open the iron gate.

  Tacitus Gambelli is an old friend, but I’ve been treading lightly around him since getting myself shot on his front patio. When you have money, you get a pass on most indiscretions, but in this town, giving the paps an excuse to set up shop on a restaurant owner’s sidewalk is worse than sleeping with his girlfriend. No matter how many guys she’s banged, he won’t find her on his roof taking pictures through the skylight.

  I felt doubly bad because Tacitus had gone out of his way to avoid being a flavor-of-the-month restaurant. That can sometimes get you a lot of ink and a slew of Hollywood elite—mostly looking for comps—but when they move on, so does your income. Tacitus had slowly built his clie
ntele from neighborhood regulars and conventional businessmen, with a few “faces” thrown in whose publicists didn’t hire a skywriter every time they went out to dinner.

  Tacitus saw me coming, put on a big smile and crossed the room hand out. “Rail, buona sera, buona sera. Where have you been?”