Cicero's Dead

by Patrick H. Moore

  Jade smiled warmly. “Did you continue to talk, at least?”

  “I tried but it was no good.”

  “Did she ever talk about my brother?”

  “Sometimes, but mostly she would gaze at a photo of him that she had.” Mr. Romano took a final sip from his cup, set it down and his eyes drifted to a distant memory. “I still love her.” His voice quavered and as he stood up, there were tears in his eyes. “If you need anything else, you have my number.” He wiped his eyes with his sleeve.

  “Thanks.”

  Sadness had taken its toll on this man. He nodded and headed south along the sidewalk.

  When we got back to June Iverson’s building, the waiting room was deserted. I closed my eyes and rested. Five o’clock rolled around and two patients exited. Five minutes later, June Iverson appeared and ushered us back to her office. Jade and I sat side-by-side on her broad comfortable couch; she sat across from us in a straight-backed chair. The afternoon light streamed in through plantation shutters that faced onto Fillmore Street.

  “So,” she said, “first of all, I’m very uncomfortable with this entire situation.”

  “I realize there may be issues of confidentiality, but Jade here is Ms. Lamont’s only daughter. The family estate is basically in her hands.”

  June Iverson looked long and hard at her. “Although the next of kin has certain rights, the right to disclosure of the deceased’s therapeutic confidences, I believe, are not among them.”

  “Ms. Iverson, I’m a detective and fully understand client confidentiality. We wouldn’t be asking unless it was absolutely necessary. Richard, her son--”

  Jade cut me off. “--My brother is in grave danger and we believe that you may have knowledge that can help us save him.”

  Ms. Iverson frowned. “From what?”

  “From a really bad guy that he’s involved with.”

  “You’re referring to Arnold Clipper.”

  “Yes.”

  “Your mom told me about him. She’d met him on her last trip to Los Angeles.”

  I was getting tired of her coy act. “So you understand the urgency?”

  No doubt my tone of voice betrayed my growing impatience. She looked at me as her ego had a brief and losing argument with fear and the desire to be done with it. Her nimble digits fiddled with each other and she cleared her throat. “One day when Richard was fifteen, he came home from school unexpectedly and heard sounds of passion coming from your mother’s bedroom. He went in and saw her having sex with a man that he recognized.” She looked at us both. I didn’t dare look at Jade. “He was,” she said deliberately, “your father’s attorney, James Halladay.”

  Jade sat there, the blood draining out of her face. Rage replaced hurt and her lips pulled back into a nasty sneer, not unlike a rabid dog. If I had scared Ms. Iverson, Jade terrified her as she stood up quickly and fighting to control herself, hissed, “I have to go. Now.”

  Jade left without looking at her. I followed her out.

  It was cold and the October evening had the feel of winter. Jade was pale as we got into the car. I was about to turn the key when her fingers gripped my forearm.

  “Five! Five million!”

  I locked eyes with her, but didn’t respond.

  “If you won’t kill him, I will.” Her heart-shaped face was hard, her sculpted lips, bloodless.

  “You can’t kill him for sleeping with your mother.”

  “You’re wrong. That piece of shit is responsible for her suicide, for Richard being so fucked up and, I’d bet every last penny I have, for killing my father.” Her eyes were daggers of scorn, and I felt myself flinch. “I never took you for a coward.”

  I let that go and waited for her to finish.

  “The islanders have a saying: A veces se dice vice que se debe matar al hombre. Sometimes a man needs killing. Halladay’s that man, and I’m going to do it.” Saying anything was pointless. We drove in silence toward the airport, through heavy rush hour traffic. We’d passed Candlestick Park before she spoke again. “Cicero would have done anything for that man.”

  “I understand how you feel and yeah, some people do need killing. But if we can prove Halladay murdered your father, the state’ll do it for you. He won’t fare well on Death Row.”

  She stared out of the window, and hatred pushed the breath out of her. “We have to find Richard. He’s all I have left.”

  My phone rang. It was Brad and he was shouting.

  “Nick, I need a fucking gun. Two hard looking dudes rolled up in a flower van, and they’re walking this way.”

  “That’s got to be Fishburne and Koncak.”

  “Gun!”

  “Bedroom closet. Cassady’s Beretta.”

  I could hear him pound up the stairs, find the box and grab the gun. “Those fuckers come in here and--”

  “--Leave out the back and go next door to our friends, the Montez family. They’ll hide you.”

  “Fuck that. I ain’t going anywhere.”

  Our bedroom window faces the street and I could envision him folding himself against the wall, aiming through the curtains. “Brad, get out!”

  “They’re ringing the doorbell,” he whispered hoarsely.

  There was a long silence. I had to brake behind a Chrysler 300 that stopped suddenly. Someone else honked. “Brad! Are you all right?”

  “They’re leaving.”

  “Can you get their license?”

  “No but the van’s sky blue, with a sea of flowers.”

  The relief in Brad’s voice was audible. My knuckles were white on the steering wheel. Jade’s green eyes were huge, her face taut with worry.

  “Are they gone?”

  “Yeah, just like my nerves.”

  “Okay, wait a minute, then see if they left anything. Be careful.”

  Another long silence while Brad walked downstairs. “Shit,” he said, “It’s an envelope addressed to you. Should I open it?”

  “No, you better wait, just in case.”

  “Hell, I’ll take my chances. Those guys didn’t look smart enough to have anthrax on hand or anything real exotic.”

  There was silence. Then Brad’s voice came back on. “Oh, man. You won’t believe this. It’s a drawing of a dismembered nude body. Got a round hole right through the middle, with a pile of what looks like intestines, stacked up next to it. Jack the Ripper stuff. Separate head. No eyes. Just sockets with a caption underneath: ‘I’m looking through you.’”

  It seemed to take forever, but we finally got a flight out of S.F.O and landed in L.A. around midnight. Jade was exhausted and slept with her head on my shoulder, her breathing soft and slow. I put my arm around her, and thought about how physical beauty and fortune had brought her and her brother nothing but pain and misery.

  We got to Bobby’s around 1:00 a.m. I phoned and waited.

  “Nick?”

  “We’re here.”

  “I’ll kill the juice.”

  We went through the gate and the goats, like phantoms on the hill, paid us only the slightest attention as we headed to the front door. Once inside, Jade staggered off to the guest room. Brad was sleeping, his elongated frame stretched out across the sofa.

  “He’s kind’a freaked out,” said Bobby. “He insisted on falling asleep with the piece across his chest.”

  “Where is it?”

  “On top of the fridge.”

  “Did he show you the picture?”

  He went into the kitchen and came out carrying the envelope and two cans of Bud Lite. Bobby’s room is like a teenager’s fantasy palace. Beautiful women occupy his wall space along with posters of sports heroes. An ancient poster of Dr. J palming a basketball occupies the place of honor above his bed. We sat down and drank our beers as I looked at the picture. I’ve never tried to draw internal body parts, but this guy had nailed it. It looked like an anatomical drawing from a medical textbook. The eyeless head was an almost precise likeness of Ron Cera.

  “‘I’m looking through yo
u,’” I read out loud.

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “I dunno. Clipper knows I’m looking for Richie. Maybe he’s trying to tell me that he’s one step ahead.”

  “I can’t wait to meet this asshole,” growled Bobby, his jaw flexing angrily.

  “What happened at McDonald’s?”

  “The very nervous doctor was sitting in back when I arrived. I ordered coffee and sat down a few tables away and about ten after five, the messenger arrived. It obviously wasn’t Fishburne or Koncak; I guess they were busy terrorizing Brad. This guy was about five-three, chubby, middle-eastern. They made the exchange and the dude booked outta there. I followed him.”

  “What about the doc?”

  “I dunno. He just sat there looking worried. I guess.”

  “And the other guy?”

  “He was walking toward Alvarado and when he realized I was following him, he picked up his pace.”

  “And then?”

  “When he knew I wasn’t going anywhere, he stopped and waited for me.” Our beers were now dead soldiers. “I need another one.”

  Asking him to wait and finish the story was pointless, so I nodded and he disappeared, returning a moment later with two new brews. He sat and continued, “I told him I was a PI and needed to ask him some questions.”

  “Was he scared?”

  “Yeah, but the forty dollars relaxed him. He told me his name’s Mamdouh and that he’d been hired to drop off the money by a tall, red-headed man named Ernie. He’d shown up yesterday and paid him $200 to deliver the envelope.”

  “Did he say what was in it?”

  “No, it was sealed, but he said it felt like a grip’a money.”

  “You think he was telling the truth?”

  Bobby nodded. “I took $500 out of my wallet and said it was his if he could lead me to Ernie. He stared longingly at it but shook his head. I doubled it and still he didn’t bite.”

  “Money, still the best lubricant in the world.”

  “I gave him another $100 and split.”

  It was about 2:00 a.m., our beers were finished and I was beat. “I’m gonna hit the sack.”

  “What are we gonna do with Brad?”

  “I dunno, but we’ve got a war on our hands.”

  “Have him stay here and keep an eye on Jade.”

  “Yes, I guess so.” I stretched and headed for the door. “Good night.”

  “If this goes sideways, I’m gonna kill every one of those motherfuckas.”

  It was late, we were buzzed and the gathering danger was pressing in on us.

  Chapter IV – Body Bags

  A sleeping bag on a kitchen floor’s not the most accommodating of beds. I woke up a few times, jarred awake by the noise of the refrigerator, but managed to get back to sleep. In the morning my friends’ voices eased me back into consciousness.

  “Sleeping beauty needs to get his ass up,” teased Bobby.

  “The boss is on strike.”

  “He does his best thinking on his back,” offered Jade, winking at me.

  Bobby and Brad looked at her, then at me, then at each other. She laughed, sounding refreshed compared to yesterday and wiggled away. I crawled out of the sleeping bag and staggered to the living room couch, but couldn’t get back to sleep, and after a while someone brought me coffee. I took a sip and tried to shake out the cobwebs.

  “Cassady called, bro,” said Bobby, handing me my cell.

  “Thanks.” I dialed her.

  “Bobby said you were asleep.”

  “Long night. Are you flying back today?”

  “In a couple of hours.”

  “When you get here, don’t go to our house. Come straight here instead.”

  “Why?”

  “‘Cause we’ve got your gun here.”

  “That bad?”

  “Worse. They came to our place yesterday afternoon. Scared Brad half to death.”

  “Any damage?”

  “Nada.”

  “Okay, good.”

  “I don’t want anyone following you here. When you get to Ontario airport, don’t pick up your car, but get a rental instead. Something dark colored, nondescript.”

  “You realize I’ve gotta teach Monday.”

  “Sorry, Baby, that’s on hold for a while.”

  She sighed. “Really?”

  “Yeah.”

  “See you soon.”

  I took my coffee, went out and sat on the back porch. The air was still brown, but showed signs of clearing, and as the winds had died down, I figured the worst was over. I phoned Audrey.

  “Hey, Boss, I’m trying to get my daughter to eat breakfast. Can you call back?”

  “No. Be very careful. Arnold and his crew are on to us and out for blood. Don’t go by the office ‘til I give you the all clear. Understand?”

  “What can I do?”

  “Work from home and do what you can.”

  “Do they know where I live?”

  “No way for me to know.”

  “Jesus.”

  Halladay beeped in, but I let it go to voicemail.

  “If you guys wanna split for a hotel, I’ll cover it. No worries.”

  “I’ll talk to Tim.”

  “Just in case, if you do, don’t give me the address.”

  “Understood.”

  She hung up and I checked my voicemail. Halladay’s voice was crisp, cool, authoritative.

  “Nick, call me immediately.”

  I finished my coffee and went inside for another. Everyone was eating eggs and toast. The blonde women on the Fox morning show were laughing.

  “Get some eggs, boss,” said Bobby.

  I went back outside with the food and another cup of coffee. I ate methodically. The goats discovered I had food, and came nuzzling up. I threw them bits of egg and let one lick the plate. Sometimes a criminal’s psychological make-up can lead you to the facts, rather than the other way around.

  Arnold, a psychotic and sadistic killer, was certainly the artist who drew the picture of Ron’s corpse. He’s wouldn’t be concerned about Richie and Jade’s fortune. No. His motivation would be to feed his ego, control his victims, and have an audience to marvel at his exploits.

  The fake Fishburne and Koncak were just garden variety scum, but dangerous. Their pleasure in meting out death was not the almost rarified joy Arnold would experience, not the product of some inexplicable aberration, but was simply mundane. Theirs was the banal pleasure of sub-humans with a basic inability to cope with life’s everyday frustrations, striking out randomly. And now they were getting paid for it.

  The problem was Halladay. Why was I so reluctant to tie him to the cover-up? He was the enigma. Jade had been quick to doubt him and she had known him for years. Was it merely coincidence that I had seen him in his running togs right in front of Arnold’s old house?

  I went back over my conversation with Halladay at his office. He’d worked hard to make himself seem worldly, yet jaded, but for what purpose? And why had he been so insistent on my loyalty? I took a sip of coffee and stirred what was left with my index finger.

  Maybe he’d invested in Cicero’s drug deals. It was certainly possible. Maybe they’d had a falling out and Cicero was now a liability. Maybe Halladay was broke. Maybe he’d been struggling for years to keep up the charade. Maybe he’d lost his fortune in the tech crash in 2000. A handful of maybes were all I had right now. Anything was possible.

  To top it off, he’d slept with his best friend’s wife. It’s obviously not unknown for a client’s wife to have a love affair with the attorney, but in her house in the middle of the afternoon? That was notably reckless, not the pattern of a prudent man. But the key point, the one I had rationalized away, was that Halladay was so insistent no one be made aware of the cover-up. Even if he was innocent, he was taking a huge risk. Concealing a capital crime is a very serious offense, and all the more if it turned out that you were involved in it. Which, viewed in a certain light, was a damned good rea
son to keep it on the down-low.

  Halladay answered on the fourth ring. “Took your time.”

  “Busy.”

  I could hear him chewing his teeth as he fought for control. “How’re things going?”

  “Jade’s doing as well as can be expected, and we’re zeroing in on Richard.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Have you ever run across Arnold Clipper?”

  I waited in the burgeoning silence. He cleared his throat. “I don’t think so, Nick, though the name sounds slightly familiar. Why?” His voice, smooth as a pickpocket lifting your wallet.

  “Clipper’s connected with the two clowns impersonating the cops. They murdered a young actor, either late Wednesday, or early Thursday morning, dumping the body near Skid Row.”

  “Yeah, it was on the news. Anyway, why would I know Clipper?”

  “You both live on Beachwood.”

  “You investigating me, to know where I live?”

  “Star Maps. Everybody knows where the celebrities live.”

  “Didn’t know I was listed there.”

  I managed not to laugh as I thought about Halladay, his ego leading the way as he purchased a Star Map from one of the many street corner hustlers.

  “Wait a minute. I have heard that name and, in fact, if memory serves, I met him at one of the neighborhood watch meetings.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yes, yes it is.”

  “This isn’t good, Mr. Halladay. He knows what you look like.”

  “But why would he want to hurt me?”

  “Connect the dots. Cicero’s millions, Richie, Jade and you.”

  “Oh my.”

  “He tried to get Ron Cera to set up a meet with Jade. He wouldn’t and now he’s dead. We need to reconsider not going to the cops.”