by Dave Stanton
“Like what?”
“You need to call me back when it’s more convenient?”
“Hold on.” I waved at Candi, went to my desk, and closed the door behind me.
“Go ahead,” I said.
“Last night, after you left, I call this one lady I’ve been dating on and off, but it seems she’s boogied on for greener pastures. So I head over to the Ready Room for a few pops. Then I drove over to Mulligan’s, but the place was deadsville. A couple more drinks, and I get this idea, why not pay a visit to the African queen, do some recon?”
“You drove to her apartment?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I sat out front for a while, and the light was on in the window, so I figure, why not? Maybe she’s in a social mood, strike up a conversation, never know what I might learn. So I go knock on the door and she answers. She looks me over and says smooth as silk, ‘May I help you?’”
“What did you say?”
“I said I was a friend of Russ Landers, and she didn’t bat an eyelash. She just smiled and invited me in and asked if I wanted a drink. She was wearing this short terrycloth robe that barely covered her ass. I sat on the couch, and she brought me a beer, then she sits next to me with her legs curled under her. I asked her how long she’s known Landers, and she says not long. Then I ask if she knows he’s a cop, and she doesn’t say anything, just smiles with her eyes—and you’ve heard of bedroom eyes, she takes it to the next level. I ask her if she knows anyone living at the Skyscape condos. ‘Maybe I do,’ she says, and her robe was falling open in front, and she starts running her fingernail along my thigh. And, Dirt, I shit you not, I thought my dong was gonna rip through my pants.”
I took a deep breath. “And then what happened?”
“I asked her to tell me about Farid Insaf. And that threw her for a second. Then she says, what about him? I say, he’s hanging out with a known rapist and killer, and I ask if she’s aware of that. She shakes her head no, then she puts her leg over mine, and she’s got nothing on under that robe. And then she whispers in my ear, ‘You ready to party?’”
I squeezed my eyes shut and pinched the bridge of my nose. “Let me guess, by this time it was a rhetorical question.”
“Yeah, pretty much, given she had already started groping my pole. We went at it right there on the couch, and whore or not, she was the most wild, exotic piece of ass I ever had.”
“How much did it cost you?” I asked.
“Who cares how much?” he replied. “She cleaned out my wallet. But I’m going to expense it to Addison.”
“Cody?” I said.
“Yeah?”
“You just banged Shanice Tucker. Duante’s sister.”
“Oh.” The line went silent. “You’re sure?”
“She’s the registered owner of the tan Ford. Did you get any meaningful information out of her?”
He cleared his throat. “Not really. No.”
“But now she knows you’re interested in her brother and Farid Insaf.”
“I suppose…yeah.”
“I hope it was worth it,” I said.
“Relax, man,” he said. “I don’t think it’s a big deal.”
I rubbed at my temples, hoping to stem the headache I felt coming on.
“There is one more thing,” Cody said.
“What?”
“I snagged her cell phone before I left.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Would I bullshit you?”
“Hmm,” I said.
• • •
When I woke the next morning, I checked my computer and saw Cody had e-mailed me updated audio files from the bugs I planted at Lennox Suggs’s house. While brewing a pot of coffee, I considered the prospect of spending a couple tedious hours on the tapes. Then I went to my desk and instead began a public records search for the address at the Skyscape condos.
I started with the Santa Clara County assessor website, then I tried the web address for the clerk/recorder. Next I went to the tax collector site, but it was closed for maintenance. For an hour I probed and prodded, trying different search criteria at a variety of public record portals. Finally I found a real estate link that revealed the parcel number for unit 1602 at the Skyscape. The unit was reported as sold six months ago. I went back to the assessor site and searched using the parcel number. It took another half hour for the Internet to cough up the detail I was looking for. Unit 1602 had been sold by a firm representing the Skyscape management group to another real estate company based in Denver.
The website for Clocker, Daniels, and Partners described a company that used investor money to acquire “commercial and residential properties in key growth segments and markets.” I called their Denver phone number and asked to speak with someone regarding the unit at the Skyscape. The receptionist transferred me to a polite man who said that although his company did own the unit, they did not handle its leasing. For that, he referred me to the main phone number at the Skyscape.
I hung up and sat with my elbows on the desk. Why not extract information on the resident of 1602 from the people who worked on the ground floor at the Skyscape? It seemed simple enough. The most obvious ploy would be to flash a badge and claim to represent a police agency. But in doing so, I would be recorded on security cameras committing a felony—one the courts prosecute with unusual vigor.
A less risky option would be to bribe the receptionist or one of the sales agents, maybe offer $500 for a copy of the tenant file, which would include Farid Insaf’s lease application. But I doubted a bribe would work, not in a situation where people would be risking their jobs, and not in a place that puts a priority on security. And if we tried and failed, Insaf would likely be alerted. I rolled my eyes. Given Cody’s indiscretion, that might already be a moot point.
Of course, we could simply barge in and strong-arm the information. But that would definitely result in a police complaint. A safer approach might be to coerce one of the agents outside the building, follow him home, and tell him to provide the tenant file or else. That might work, but it could just as easily backfire and invite police attention. Despite his inclinations, I doubted Cody would want to risk it.
Blackmail was a thought that might hold some merit. Take some compromising photos, maybe of the Skyscape’s gay sales associate in bed with a boyfriend. But I disliked blackmail as a general tactic. It was not only often sordid, but rarely went smoothly.
Another option was breaking and entering in the dead of night, when I assumed there would be no attendant at the main desk. If the building was less secure, that might be a tenable approach. But the Skyscape was full of security cameras and electronic locks and certainly had a modern alarm system. Breaking in would only be a last-ditch, desperation tactic—unless we could devise some way to do it and avoid detection.
I went out to the kitchen and had toast and more coffee with Candi, who sat on the couch with our furry gray cat snuggled in her lap. Streaks of sunlight were patterned across the carpet, and when I looked out the window, the sky was brilliant against the ridgeline. I walked out the front door and into the morning sunlight to a granite boulder just inside the fence line. When I first moved here, I’d found the big rock in the meadow and rolled it into my yard. I had some vague plan to plant flowers around it, but I never did. I sat on the rock and tossed the dregs of my coffee onto the dirt and rested my palms against the stone’s coarse, heated surface. The smell and feel of the granite made me think of assembling my rock-climbing gear and trekking out beyond the meadow to where stone walls rose among the pines. But for now, I had desk work that needed to get done.
Back in front of my computer, I put on earphones and began playing the audio files from the last twelve hours at Lennox Suggs’s house. I allotted two hours to review the files, but twenty minutes later I was done. There were no voice imprints, not even a grunt or a cough. Suggs must not have been home. Either that or the bugs had failed.
I flipped open the notebook I’d been using to record the detail
s of the case. Scattered across the pages were various theories, suppositions, and hunches, along with addresses, names, license plate numbers, and interview summaries. My eyes roved over the pages, searching for an angle to pursue. I stopped when I saw “Abdul’s Mediterranean Cuisine.”
Fresh from the Skyscape title search, I was able to find the proprietor of the restaurant in just fifteen minutes. Being a commercial property, the data was far easier to access than that of a private residence. A year ago, a liquor license had been granted to Abdul Talwar for use at Abdul’s Mediterranean Cuisine. I ran a public records search on Abdul Talwar, and apparently it was not a common name; there were many Talwars, but only one Abdul Talwar. A thirty-nine-year-old man, previous addresses in Pennsylvania and New Jersey, most recent address in Fremont, California. Four known relatives listed: a wife, a ten-year-old son, and two cousins, all living in Fremont.
We had suspected Duante Tucker and Lennox Suggs had bought heroin at Abdul’s, an Arabic restaurant that served lousy food. It was hard to imagine the restaurant doing much legitimate business, although a liquor license wasn’t cheap, so Abdul had to have made a significant investment in the place. If all their cuisine was as bad as the tasteless chicken kabob Cody had ordered, maybe Abdul—and maybe his cousins, too—were relying on drug money to stay afloat.
“So what?” I asked aloud, drumming my fingers on the desk. So follow the money, I said to myself.
I turned to a blank page in my notebook and wrote “Duante Tucker” in the middle of the sheet. In the surrounding spaces, I added the attorney, Darrian Bannon, then Farid Insaf, Lennox Suggs, Abdul Talwar, and Duante’s sister, Shanice. I paused for a moment, then to the side, I wrote “South Lake Tahoe PD,” and then I neatly printed “Russ Landers.”
Criminals, all of them, including someone in South Lake Tahoe PD who took a bribe to dispose of the DNA. But what were the connections?
I picked up my cell to call Cody, but before I could enter his number, the phone rang in my hand.
“Investigations.”
“Hey, No Problemo Reno, Ryan Addison here. I just took a look at your progress report.”
“Yes?” In the background I could hear voices and music.
“Forgive me in advance, my man, but you seem to be burning a bunch of calories going nowhere.”
“That’s not true,” I said.
“I mean, you think Duante Tucker is living with someone named Farid Insaf, but you don’t have any clue who Insaf is?”
“It’s a work in progress.” A loud splash and a cheer erupted, and Addison said, “Hold on a second.” The sound became muffled, but I could hear a voice yell, “Someone get her top!”
“Sorry about that,” Addison said when he came back on the line. “We have some folks from the studio visiting, and we’re having a barbeque. You’re welcome to drop by if you like, rub elbows with some movie people.”
“Thanks, but I’ll pass,” I said.
“Not in a social mood, huh?”
“Actually, I’m working, Mr. Addison. On your case.”
“Well, how about Cody Gibbons? He’s invited, too.”
“He’s in San Jose right now. I’ll be headed back there shortly.”
“That’s too bad. Cassie will be disappointed. She has a thing for Gibbons, the lusty wench.”
I looked at my watch. It was not yet eleven, and Addison sounded drunk.
“Is there anything else?” I asked.
“Yes,” Addison said, and he must have changed locations, because the background noise ceased. When he spoke, his casual tone was gone, and his words sounded forced, as if he were speaking with his hand clutched to his throat.
“Every day Duante Tucker is free is like a saw blade cutting into the soul of my family,” he said. “Lindsey is irreversibly fucked up. She was an innocent victim of a vicious psychopath, and she’ll never be the same. Now, I hired you because you’re the legitimate article, so don’t deny it. I want Tucker to go down in flames. And I want him to suffer first, just like Lindsey did. That’s why I’m paying you. Do you hear me?”
“My ears work fine.”
“Good. Cassie is putting your check in the mail. I expect your next report will have a little more meat on the bone, right?”
“That’s the goal.”
“Well, don’t just say it, do it.”
“I should let you get back to your guests.”
“Fine, then.”
There was an awkward pause, then I said, “Good-bye, Mr. Addison.”
“Adios,” he replied.
I set the phone down and ran my hand through my hair. I really didn’t know what to make of Ryan Addison and his surrounding cast of characters. They all seemed like actors practicing roles, one moment serious and contrite, the next animated, outraged, or even deranged. I suppose the ability to adopt varied personas is a valuable trait in the acting business, but to practice in real life situations? I shook my head.
At least Addison was consistent about one thing, though; he wanted Duante Tucker dead. And I didn’t think that was an act.
• • •
By three o’clock I was on the road back to San Jose, after some unanticipated early afternoon bedroom activity with Candi. Before leaving the house, I checked the gear I kept locked in the steel toolbox bolted to my truck bed. Arranged in a shoebox atop my bullet proof vest were my 35 mm camera and a miniaturized camera, which was obsolete, given the picture-taking capability of smartphones. Next to the cameras lay my Beretta .40-cal pistol and two loaded eleven-round magazines. The Beretta was fifteen years old, but it was far from obsolete. It never jammed, the action was quick and smooth, and it was just as lethal as the day I bought it.
In a second shoebox were a pair of binoculars, a variety of listening devices that were mostly old and in need of replacement, and a collection of fake badges and face makeup, including glasses with noncorrective lenses and a kit for applying phony facial hair. Just before backing out of the garage, I placed my nylon climbing rope in the steel box, along with a rappelling device and a couple of carabiners.
As soon as I cleared Echo Summit and the cellular signal improved, I called Cody. “Got any plans tonight?” I asked.
“Plans? Yeah, I’ve been invited to audition for Dancing with the Stars.”
“I didn’t realize you were so popular.”
“I’m not. I’m in a slump, man,” he said.
“I thought you just had the wildest piece of ass of your life.”
“I feel like a dumbass for that, I have to admit.”
“Have you done anything with her phone yet?” I asked.
“No. It’s password protected. I can’t see call history, texts, nothing. I dropped it off yesterday to a guy who’ll decrypt it.”
“Good. Why don’t you get some rest, take a nap if you can. I want to work tonight.”
“What you got it mind?” he said.
“We haven’t seen Farid Insaf leave the Skyscape during the day. So let’s try after dark.”
I heard him blow out his breath. “Did you hear anything interesting at Suggs’s house?” he asked.
“No, not a goddamned thing. I don’t think he was home.”
“I got the same result. So, you want to pull an all-nighter?”
“You got any better ideas?”
• • •
When I came off the final rolling grade just north of Fremont, I could see a band of midsummer smog resting over the bowl of Silicon Valley. I made my way through the last of the rush hour traffic and met Cody at his office at seven thirty. We walked to an outdoor café and ate standing at the bar, then we drove to the Skyscape. The sun was just disappearing behind the Diablo Range when we pulled over at the curb. The day’s heat had faded, and I could feel a cool breeze when I opened my window.
Cody got out of my truck, knelt behind the cab, and focused his binoculars up at the balcony for unit 1602. “All quiet,” he said.
A few minutes went by, and the dusk turned to full dark
. Unlike many of the other balconies, there was no light behind the glass doors at 1602. Over the next couple hours, we watched every car that came and went from the underground garage. There was a light over the steel garage gate, and it illuminated the faces of the drivers to the extent that we could easily discern if a face was black or otherwise. By midnight the trickle of cars ceased. We had not seen a single black person.
We sat in my truck. The light at 1602 hadn’t come on since we’d arrived.
“The man’s a smoker,” Cody said. “I don’t think anyone’s home.”
“Maybe you’re right.”
“You want to stay longer?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“We need to be patient,” I said.
Two hours passed. The street was quiet and without activity during that time. It was two thirty on a Thursday morning, but I was wide awake. I reached behind my seat and yanked my duffel bag onto my lap.
“What’s up?” Cody said. He’d been dozing for the last half hour or so.
I pulled a black shirt over my head. “It’s time for plan B.”
“What you got in mind?”
“We’re going to take the elevator from the garage to the top. Then I’m going to rappel down to the balcony of 1602.”
“Are you fucking serious?”
“As a heart attack,” I said.
“You got a rope?”
“Yeah. There’s no lock on the balcony doors.”
“You sure about that?”
“There wasn’t in the rental unit I looked at. And the door latch on 1602 looks identical.”
He shook his head. “You’re nuts, man.”
“Like you said, I don’t think anyone’s home.” I got out of the truck, opened the lockbox behind the cab, and stepped into my climbing harness. Then I cinched my shoulder holster tight on my chest. Cody came out into the cool darkness and watched me gear up.
“What do you want me to do?” he asked.
“When we get to the top, I need you to watch and make sure I can get into 1602. I’ll signal you if all’s okay. Then pull the rope up and meet me back here.”
“What if it’s locked and you can’t get in?”