City of War

by Neil Russell

  23

  Power Plays and Security Oaths

  It took the district attorney and the cops exactly thirty hours to get their act together. They sent three DDAs to the meeting at Jake’s. Manarca was there too, along with his boss, Commander Roy Rogers, an unfortunate name, I thought, but after considering the size of the guy, I doubt anyone made fun of it. The other person was Captain Juliette Luna, head of the LAPD’s gang detail. Pantiagua was nowhere in sight.

  After everybody was seated in the conference room, and the deputy district attorneys had taken in the floor-to-ceiling views of the L.A. Country Club and begun wondering why they weren’t in private practice, Jake said, “I appreciate your coming.”

  Captain Luna wasn’t so polite. “So what exactly is it you fucking want, Praxis?”

  Jake decided to handle the attitude first. Speaking to a bald DDA named Fontaine, he said, “The first thing we’re going to do is drop the I’m-a-cop-and-you’re-not bullshit. When I’m satisfied we’re all here to cooperate, we’ll start. Until then, I’ll send somebody in to get your coffee order. If that doesn’t suit you, the receptionist will validate your parking on the way out. Come on, Rail.” And we got up to leave.

  Fontaine looked at Luna, who glared at Jake, then at me. Just as we hit the door, Commander Rogers said, “Let’s not waste any more time than we have to on this. We’ve all got other things to do.”

  We sat back down, and Jake started again. “First, Captain Luna is going to meet with Mrs. Videz and tell her that her son didn’t murder anyone. That the police made a horrible mistake, and she’s there to personally apologize. Then the department will issue a press release to the same effect. No tricky language, no ambiguity. The release will also say that you’re reopening the investigation into the kid’s death and Dr. York’s. And I’m being charitable when I say ‘reopening,’ since there wasn’t an investigation to begin with.”

  I thought Captain Luna’s head was going to explode, but she held her tongue. I knew she was picturing herself being grilled by a herd of reporters smelling blood.

  “Next, Sergeant Manarca will go out to LAX, hunt up Mitchell Adams and interview him about his nephew. Then he’ll make a deal with the Manhattan Beach cops to get that case transferred to LAPD.”

  I saw Manarca look at me, surprised. He’d been expecting to be slapped. Instead, we were throwing him a bone. He nodded his appreciation, and I nodded back. It wasn’t because I suddenly liked him, but he was probably a good detective who, for whatever reason, laziness or politics, didn’t do his job. Now he was getting a second chance, and if he did it right, no one would remember the first go-round.

  But Jake wasn’t going to let him off scot-free, which probably had more to do with the Pantiagua incident at the hospital than it did with Manarca. “And then, Detective, if you haven’t figured it out for yourself by now, you’re going to interview Marta Videz. And while you’re at it, I suggest you take along a police artist, because she actually saw one of the guys who murdered her son—something she could have told you if you’d bothered to ask.”

  Manarca got a little darkness in his eyes, but it evaporated quickly. He was already figuring out how he was going to get personal mileage out of this.

  I slid over the photograph I’d taken of the killer’s tattoo. “One of the other guys, Tino, will have this on his left arm—only it’ll have more legs.”

  Manarca looked at the picture. “You couldn’t get a face to go with this?”

  “He moved when I clicked,” I said.

  “So it’s the Tacitus shooter, and he’s dead,” Manarca snorted. “I hope you didn’t do this. Where’s the body?”

  “You’re the only one talking about bodies. Last time I saw the guy, he was in handcuffs.”

  “Handcuffs? Where?”

  “If you two don’t mind,” said Jake, cutting in. “Finally, I want a copy of every scrap of paper and every piece of information you’ve got on the shootings at Tacitus. And, when they start coming in, on the deaths of Kiki Videz and Walter Kempthorn. All the interviews, all the forensics and all the computer runs—everything. And I want it to keep coming as long as the cases are open.”

  It was Rogers’s turn to show the flag. “Not a fuckin’ chance. We’ve got sources and techniques to protect.”

  Jake looked at Rogers like a schoolchild. “Commander, I expect you to redact informants’ names. If I want one, I’ll ask, and you can put it through channels. As for techniques, I haven’t seen any yet. So let me know when I do, and I’ll reconsider.”

  Without even looking at Rogers, Fontaine said to Jake, “You’ve got it.”

  This scene had probably been rehearsed beforehand to give the commander cover, but he was still furious and not hiding it. He snorted and crossed his big arms.

  Fontaine looked at Jake. “Just tell me one thing. How did you manage to get this case in front of that ACLU shill, Cavalcante?”

  Jake didn’t bat an eye. “I’m surprised at you, Counselor. You know nobody can influence judicial assignments—at least not at the federal level.” He paused for effect. “But if I had to guess, I’d say that 60 Minutes piece last year had something to do with it. How did that LAPD captain put it? You remember—the guy they filmed behind a curtain to protect his identity. ‘Ask anybody, there’s just some people, like that asshole Cavalcante, that if they call a cop, we’re gonna sit back down and play another hand of poker. Maybe even order lunch.’”

  Fontaine nodded. “That’s what I told the chief—and that you’d probably subpoena him first, just to twist his tit. Was I right?”

  “Faster than he can get to a photo op.”

  “So what can we expect in return?” asked Fontaine.

  “I’ll hold the other two lawsuits, and I’ll ask Judge Cavalcante to extend the deadline for starting depositions on Mr. Black’s action. Then I’ll take the Los Tigres depos first. That should buy you a couple of months.”

  “Since you’re getting everything you want from us, why can’t you just drop the whole goddamn thing?”

  “As Chuck Colson used to remind Nixon, ‘When you’ve got ’em by the balls, their hearts and minds aren’t far behind.’ My best to the chief.”

  On the way back to the hotel, my cell phone rang. It was Carl Noon. He skipped the hello. “What the fuck are you into?”

  “The name Truman York jog somebody’s memory?”

  “Classy fuckin’ guy.”

  “How classy?”

  “Let’s do the professional shit first,” Carl said. “Your boy’s last posting was Incirlik.”

  “Turkey.”

  “Correctomundo. Found himself a nice sideline using his plane to hump heroin around the Med for some Mafioso named Gaetano Bruzzi. Then, like they all do, he decided to get into the business. Siphoned off half a million bucks of jet fuel and traded it for some Grade-A Afghan smack. The carabinieri arrested him in Rome, in a suite at the Hassler, no less, sucking on some prostitute’s toes with ten kilos under the bed.”

  “Wonder how they knew where to look,” I said sarcastically. “That stuff was probably resold before he got finger-printed.”

  Carl laughed. “Hey, the guy was a pilot. Ever met one who didn’t think he was a fuckin’ genius? But get this. There was no court-martial, not even a hearing. He even kept his oak leaves and full retirement. The air force just wanted him the fuck gone.”

  I thought about it. The military gets real attitude when you sell their stuff and don’t invite them to the toe-sucking. But they get a major hard-on over drug trafficking. The theft was worth maybe eighteen months and a dishonorable. That much horse was twenty to life.

  “Who’d he know?” I asked.

  “That’s what I thought too. It took a little digging to find out what really happened.”

  “And…”

  “He was already in trouble for knocking up the daughter of some Turk mayor.”

  “And let me guess, she was underage.”

  “I think even in Sandland
, you can’t consent at twelve.”

  Somehow, I wasn’t surprised. “The local code probably calls for a hot blade and an audience. So why didn’t they just turn him over? Walk away.”

  “Because the mayor demanded the base general too. Said in his tribe a daughter’s honor demanded the perp and his father, but he’d settle for the CO. The JAG had no choice but to get them both out of Dodge. There was no career move in prosecuting him and maybe having the media get hold of it, so they just cut him loose.”

  “That it, or is there more?”

  “Oh, I’m just getting warmed up. This guy was a peach.”

  “Skip to the end, okay?”

  “Well, no sooner did Major York rejoin the real world and get his special courier certificate than he got hired by the G again. Only this time it was the army.”

  “They didn’t know?”

  “Hard to tell, but before Turkey, York had flown a refueler for the SR-71.”

  I rolled my eyes. “So he had clearances up the ying-yang, and, of course, the only thing the Pentagon cared about was that he’d never violated his security oath.”

  “You oughta go on Jeopardy.”

  “What did they entrust him with?”

  “No one’s talking, but that last flight, Egypt Air, wasn’t a vacation. My guess is something very big went down with everything else.”

  “Anybody think it was related to the crash?”

  “No, the cause was that crazy motherfucker upfront—high on God or politics or thinking he was Wile E. Coyote.”

  If there was anyone on the planet who’d deserved that last ride, it was Truman York. I’d have paid to see the look on his face. I shifted gears. “You ask about the City of War?”

  “I did. And if Truman York got their attention, that lit them up like a pit bull at a petting zoo.”

  “So what the hell is it?”

  “Don’t know. But some people at the Pentagon want to talk to you. You’re supposed to catch a plane.”

  “When?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “Who do I see?”

  “I wouldn’t worry about that. The way they sounded, they’ll be meeting everything that flies.”

  It’s always nice to know you’re important. “Carl, I’m going to need something else.”

  “Jesus H. Christ, now what?”

  “I want to talk to someone who was close to Flight 990.”

  “That ought to be some trick, since they’re all fuckin’ dead.”

  “You know what I mean. And not an investigator. I want somebody who was there that night.”

  “Let me think about it. But if I come up with something, it’s going to cost you.”

  “Name it.”

  “I’ve got a big birthday coming up. One that ends in a zero, and I want to throw a party on that goddamn yacht of yours. Nothing fancy. Ten, twelve good friends. A little three-day cruise to nowhere.”

  “Done.”

  “Not so fast. And I want that stiff limey who works for you to do the planning. What’s his name again?”

  “Mallory.”

  “Yeah, Mallory. Personality like a black fuckin’ hole, but I’ll never forget that housewarming he threw when you moved into San Simeon up there in the Hills of Beverly. Unbelievable.”

  “I’ll guarantee the boat, but you’ll have to talk to Mallory yourself. He’s the most independent man on the planet.”

  “Deal. I’ll get him laid. What’s his preference?”

  “Not my arena, but I’d pay plenty to hear the conversation.”

  Carl laughed, and we hung up.

  24

  Safe Houses and Spitters

  Hollywood usually depicts safe houses as grubby apartments in a seedy part of town. Sometimes they are, but not very often. Slum residents know who belongs in their neighborhood and who doesn’t. They also know a lot about each other’s business, and they get suspicious when they can’t determine where somebody fits in. Not a conducive environment for strangers coming and going at odd hours, or for someone who might have a houseful of strange equipment or be running people in and out.

  In reality, safe houses are usually in respectable communities, where, as long as you pay your rent and don’t make noise, people will generally leave you alone—if only out of politeness. And for serious operations, swanky is always best. There’s nothing more anonymous than a Park Avenue co-op or a New Jersey horse farm. Most of the time, you can come and go without seeing anyone, and if you do happen to bump into a neighbor, when was the last time a rich stranger struck up a conversation with you? Money can get you attention, but it’s particularly useful when you want to be invisible.

  My real estate agent, Jhanya Devereux—exotic names are de rigueur in Beverly Hills real estate—called five of her high-end counterparts in Washington, D.C., and told them she had a client who was looking for a luxurious building where he could spend a month. Jhanya said her client was doing some consulting at the White House, and if he found the right place, he’d be open to purchasing a floor as his Washington residence.

  “What he’s really looking for,” she breathed into the phone, “is a place to give parties and showcase his art collection.” She added that there was no cap on the budget, and, of course, the agent stood to receive a handsome fee plus a bonus for being discreet.

  Four of the five got back to her within an hour, and I chose the Watergate. It had several things going for it. First, its location in Foggy Bottom and a steady stream of cabs make it easy to get around. Second, its labyrinthine layout is difficult to surveil. And third, it was a place I knew. There have probably been more clandestine operations run out of the Watergate than any comparably sized plot of land on the planet.

  I also know a lobbyist who lives just up the road in Georgetown. Freddie Rochelle’s a horse’s ass, but he’s so greedy and unscrupulous that, for the right price, he’d roast his pet toucan for hors d’oeuvres. Hell, for a little extra, he’d chew it for you. As a rule, I try to avoid lobbyists because it takes a month to bathe them out of your pores, but I’ve come to appreciate that if you need something unconscionable done, guys like Freddie can be useful. Look in the phonebook under “Weasel-Fucks.”

  I called Eddie and told him to get the plane ready and file a flight plan to Reagan National for Monday—three days away. I also asked him to book rooms for us at the Hay-Adams—under our real names. Eddie started to ask questions but then backed off.

  Duke Pennington responded to my page in fifteen minutes, and when he arrived, I asked if he knew anybody who would like to use the penthouse for a couple of days—all expenses paid.

  “You want to tell me why?”

  “I need it to look like I haven’t left. You know, room service, dirty linen. But with the drapes closed in case someone’s sitting out there with a pair of binoculars.”

  “Manarca?”

  “Probably a little more heavy duty.”

  “Starting when?”

  “About two hours from now.”

  He thought for a moment. “You particular about color?”

  “I’ve got an aversion to chartreuse. It gives me vertigo.”

  He gave me one of those looks. “My daughter and son-in-law are trying to have another baby, but they can’t get much together time with four-year-old twins. And I know my ex-wife would like to get her hands on those kids for a while without their parents hanging around to screw up her spoiling.”

  “Then tell your daughter I hear caviar helps fertility, but you’ve got to eat a lot of it and wash it down with Dom Perignon.”

  He laughed. “Shit, maybe I should do this job myself.”

  I shook my head. “Nobody’d stay cooped up with you for more than an hour.”

  Duke used his elevator key to take us down into the Beverly Wilshire basement, where we crossed under Rodeo Drive through one of the tunnels that connect much of downtown Beverly Hills. The passageways were built after the city became a mecca for celebrities so they could move around town without b
eing bothered by ordinary folk. Since 9/11, though, just about anyone with any pull at all uses them.

  We came up in Barney’s and went out the back door, where the valet put us in a cab. As we pulled away, my phone went off.

  It was Jake. “Manarca picked up your friend, Dante.”

  “Remarkable what people can do when they’re motivated,” I said. “Where was he?”

  “The loading dock supervisor at Home Depot remembered him. Said he stopped in a couple of months ago and wanted to know if teenagers ever came around looking for work. When the supervisor said they showed up mostly on weekends when there wasn’t school, the guy came back every Saturday and Sunday for a month.”

  “Shopping for a look-alike for his shooter. And one day, in walks Kiki Videz.”

  “That’d be my guess. Super thought the guy might be a perv, so he wrote down his license number. Turns out the van belongs to some French chef in Toluca Lake. And guess who was bedding down in the guy’s garage.”

  That explained the gasoline smell on the pillowcase over Kim’s head. “What about Tino?”

  “Just Dante. And the van, which they’ve impounded.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Beverly Hills lockup. Manarca said he wanted to make it easy for you.”

  “And I’m sure that’s exactly how he put it,” I said.

  Except for a couple of cramped rooms used by attorneys, BHPD isn’t set up for prisoner visitation, so Manarca and a Beverly Hills detective named Kahane had Dante in an assistant chief’s office on the third floor. They had both his wrists cuffed to a chair at a round table, with the two cops seated on either side of him.

  I left Archer downstairs, where there was a coffee machine and a stack of law enforcement and gun magazines. She’d wanted to see the man who’d helped orchestrate her sister’s murder and tried to kill her. Tell him what she thought of him. But I needed information, and a scene wouldn’t help. To make her feel like she was doing her part, I told her to call Symphony Limousine and have a car sent over.

  “Speak to D. J. Kaplan and tell him to have the driver bring an extra pair of socks. Something light that won’t be too hard to carry.”