Ferrara smiled and said, “We want to keep this quiet. We don’t want publicity that could hurt Beth’s career. Which brings us to you, Jack. We’d like a quote with a ceiling.”
I wondered if Beth Anderson had left town or if she was dead. Either way, I didn’t want Noccia’s business at Private.
“Sorry, I don’t do quotes,” I said. “I don’t do ceilings either. And I don’t do business with the Mob.”
There was a moment of thick silence, then Reilly and Ferrara got to their feet as one.
“You’re doing Andy Cushman,” said Ferrara. “And if I’m any judge of degenerate womanizers, you’re doing the little piece of Killarney sitting outside your office too.”
Reilly paused on the threshold to launch his parting shot. “And let’s not forget your father was doing life for murder when he passed. You’ve got a lot of nerve, Jack-off.”
I guess I did, but that was part of the reason Private was doing so well.
Chapter 20
AT THREE THAT afternoon, Jason Pilser was in his office at Howard Public Relations, waiting for the advisory board meeting to start, when he got a text message that catapulted his mood.
The message was from Steemcleena himself, posting particulars of the next “night on the town.” The notice addressed him by his screen name, “Scylla,” and said, “Get ready. You’re IT.”
Holy crap, it was actually happening, his baptism by fire. He’d been thinking about this night for weeks. In fact, he’d thought of little else. He’d originally met “Morbid” on Commandos of Doom, an online real-time war game. As allies, they had fought dozens of successful battles over the past two years.
But when Morbid recruited him into a much more select group of gamers, it had floored him. His introduction to Steemcleena had been virtual, and he’d had to wait until Morbid locked it up. Now Steemcleena was on board. And soon Jason as Scylla would step out from behind the computer screen and see some real-life action.
Pilser worked like a robot for the next three hours. He didn’t flinch when the head bitch blamed him for screwing up a proposal he hadn’t even compiled. Screw her. At six, he put on his jacket and left for the day.
He drove straight to a hardware store in West Hollywood.
He walked the narrow stocked-to-the-ceiling aisles and picked out a six-foot-long extension cord, a roll of duct tape, and a pair of cotton jersey gloves. Nothing very unusual. He paid cash for his purchases, keeping his head down so the security camera over the cash register didn’t catch his face.
He was so pumped that his hands were sweating.
The big night was only three days away. And he was “it.” On Saturday he was going to kill a girl somewhere in LA.
Chapter 21
THIS WASN’T REALLY sleep, was it? It was more like going to war every night and getting bombed back into reality in the morning.
In my dream this time, I ran across the burning battlefield, Colleen in my arms, blood splashing on my shoes. My heart hammered against my rib cage as she said, “Save me, Jack. I’m the mother of your children.”
The thumping explosion of mortar rounds threw me to the ground. My eyes flew open, and for an instant I had a strong sense that I was still on the battlefield on my last day in Afghanistan.
I remembered most of it, but some crucial recollection was missing, a gap in my memory from the time the helicopter went down and the moment when I died.
I had pushed the missing memory so far into my subconscious, it was subterranean.
I had to dig it up. Had to find out the truth about that day.
If I could retrieve the memory, maybe I could finally sleep.
I was still grasping at wisps of dream and memory when my cell phone vibrated on the nightstand.
I looked at the caller ID, read “out of area.”
I left the phone on the table, sprang out of bed, and flipped on the house security monitors.
I scrutinized the six monitors and saw nothing out of place, so I left them and did an eyeball check of the grounds. Cars streamed by on the Pacific Coast Highway beyond my front gate. There are high fences between my house and my neighbors’ on both sides. The beach was empty at the back of my house.
I was alone.
The phone finally stopped ringing. Light streamed through the glass, and the Pacific crashed outside my bedroom window.
This was the house I’d bought with Justine.
Talk about memories that can haunt you. I still saw Justine in this room, her dark hair fanned out on the white pillow, looking at me with love in her eyes. And you know what? I looked back at her the same way.
I showered and dressed in chinos and a blue oxford shirt, and then the phone started ringing again. I took the damned thing to the dining table I used as a desk and opened it.
“You’re dead,” said the mechanical voice.
“Not yet,” I said.
I made very strong coffee, then spent the next hour and a half making phone calls, confirming appointments.
By the time I met Del Rio at Santa Monica Airport, it was almost ten.
Time to fly.
Chapter 22
WE BOARDED a Cessna Skyhawk SP, a spiffy and reliable single-engine aircraft, and Del Rio took his place beside me. Just like old times.
I looked at Rick. He looked back, our thoughts on the same track: Afghanistan, our friends who’d been killed in the helicopter, the fact that Del Rio had jump-started my heart and I owed him my life.
I wondered if he could tell me more about what happened that last day in Gardez. I’d gotten a medal for carrying Danny Young out of that burning helicopter. But I couldn’t ignore the nagging dreams. Was my mind doing a head-fake: protecting me from an unbearable memory and at the same time prodding me to remember?
“Rick, that last day in Gardez?”
“The helicopter? Why, Jack?”
“Tell me about it again.”
“I’ve told you everything I can remember.”
“It still isn’t clear for me. Something is missing, something I’m forgetting.”
Del Rio sighed. “We were moving troops to Kandahar. It was night. You were the section leader and I was copilot. We couldn’t see some raghead with his ground-to-air missile in the back of a truck. No one saw him. We took a hit to the belly. Nobody’s fault, Jack.
“You brought the Phrog down,” Del Rio said. “The bird was burning from the inside out—remember that? I got out the side door, and you went through the back. Guys from the dash two were running all over the field. I started looking for you. I found you with Danny Young in your arms. Always the hero, Jack, always the stand-up guy. Then the mortar hit.”
“I see snapshots, not the whole movie.”
“You were dead, that’s why. I pounded on your chest until you came back. That’s all I’ve got for you.”
The pictures just didn’t flow in consecutive order and wouldn’t make a whole. I saw the crash. I remembered running with Danny Young over my shoulder. I woke up.
Something was missing.
What didn’t I know? What else had happened on that battlefield?
I was still staring at Del Rio. He grinned at me. “Sweetheart. You gonna tell me you love me?”
“I do, asshole. I do love you.”
Del Rio laughed like hell and pulled his sunglasses down from the top of his cap. I busied myself with the checklist.
I got clearance from the tower, advanced the throttle, and taxied the Cessna down the runway. Gave it some right rudder to keep it rolling along the center line. When the airspeed indicator read sixty, I came back a touch on the yoke and the plane gently lifted, practically flew itself into the blue and sunny skies over Los Angeles.
Smooth as cream.
For the next hundred minutes I flew the plane as if it were a part of my body. Flying is procedure, procedure, procedure, and I knew it all by heart. I listened to the radio chatter in my headset, and it erased my tormenting thoughts.
I forgot the dream and
lost myself in the wonder of flight.
Chapter 23
JUST AFTER NOON, we landed at Metropolitan Airport on San Francisco Bay.
We rented a car and hit some heavy traffic on the Harbor Bay Parkway, arriving at the Oakland Raiders’ practice field half an hour late for our appointment with Fred.
I gave my card to the security guard at the main gate, and Del Rio and I were waved through to the natural-grass practice field where professional football players were running pass patterns and pursuit drills. On the far end, two placekickers took turns booting field goal tries from the forty-yard line.
Fred was standing on the sideline at midfield and came over to greet us. I introduced Del Rio, saying that he would be working with me on the case.
My uncle waved in a few of the Raiders’ high-profile players—Brancusi, Lipscomb, and tailback Muhammed Ruggins—guys who were earning millions a year. Jeez, were they big. We talked about the upcoming game with Seattle and then turned our attention to the Raiders’ talented quarterback Jermayne Jarvis, who was out there taking snaps.
I said, “I can’t get over his timing on those square outs. It’s like he knows precisely when the receiver will turn.”
Fred said, “You did good at Brown, Jack. You could throw it on a rope. You’re better off that you didn’t try and go pro, though.”
I couldn’t have. I didn’t have the size for it, or probably the arm. Plus the Ivy League isn’t exactly the Big Ten or the SEC.
I saw a light go on behind Fred’s eyes. “So, Jack, maybe you and Rick want to toss the ball around with some of my guys?”
I protested, said, “Are you crazy? I thought you cared about me.” But Del Rio looked like a kid who’d just won a video store sweepstakes.
He and I went out to the field and took turns running ten-yard crossing patterns as Jermayne Jarvis fired strikes at us.
Having warmed up, I found myself getting into it. But as I reached for one of Jarvis’s precision darts, I ran into Del Rio, knocking us both down. Fred trotted over, put his hands on his knees, and while laughing at me, said, “That was beautiful, Jack. Poetry in motion. Now I’ve got something to show you that’s not so funny.”
We walked off the field through a long concrete hallway and a series of locked doors until we got to Fred’s office. He opened a locked cabinet and took out a banker’s box full of what he said were DVDs of the past twenty-eight months of NFL games.
“I flagged those eleven games that raised real questions. Check them out, and let’s compare notes.”
Then he told me where I should start looking for the crooks who were threatening to shut down professional football.
“I’ve never asked you for anything before, Jack, but this time I’m asking. I need your help.”
Chapter 24
IT WAS DARK when I got back to my house. A waxing moon spotlighted the roof, which was just visible over the high steel-reinforced gate.
I was pulling the Lamborghini into my garage when I saw headlights in the rearview mirror.
The lights followed right on my tail, flashing, someone signaling to me. I braked, turned off the engine, and got out. I saw a black sedan easing into my driveway. Who the hell was it?
I waited by the side of my car until a front door of the sedan opened. The driver got out. He unbuttoned his jacket as he came striding toward me. “Mr. Jack Morgan?”
When I said that I was, he said, “Mr. Noccia wants to speak to you. It’s important.”
“I don’t want to talk to anybody right now,” I said without pause. “Please be careful backing out. You don’t want to get T-boned on the highway.”
“You’re sure that’s what you want me to tell him?”
I was pretty sure. I stood my ground as the driver went back to the Town Car. I waited for it to leave, but instead the passenger-side door opened. A second man got out, and he opened the rear door for a third man. And then the three of them closed the distance between us.
I recognized Ray Noccia.
He was wearing a gray sport jacket and had gray hair, gray skin, and a nose that cast a shadow on his cheek. Reality hit me. A Mafia don, a made man who had ordered dozens of executions, was standing in my driveway. It was nighttime. Nobody had seen him come. Nobody would see him leave.
He stuck out his hand. “Ray Noccia,” he said. “Good to meet you.”
I kept my hand in my jacket until he put his down. A dark look passed over his face, as though I’d slapped him or pissed on his shoes.
Then Noccia smiled. “Your father and I did some business,” he said. “That’s why I sent my attorneys to talk with you. Apparently they offended you in some way. I owe you an apology, and I make my apologies in person.”
“No apology needed,” I said.
There was no humor in his smile.
“Good. So you’ll look for Beth for me? I understand the rules. No quote. No ceiling. I’ll pay your rate plus a bonus when you find her. That’s because you’re the best.”
It was time that I ended this, now and for the future.
“Your men know where they buried her. Save your money. Drill down on them.”
There was a leaden pause. Noccia didn’t take his eyes away from mine, and when he spoke, his words were almost drowned out by the rush of traffic and the Pacific surf.
“You’re much better educated than your father, but you’re not half as smart,” said Noccia. “And look how he ended up.” He turned and walked back to his car.
I had probably gone beyond the realm of bravado, but I didn’t care. Ray Noccia had already said the worst thing he could to me—that he and my father had worked together.
My hand was shaking when I put my key in the lock of the front door. I hoped I’d never see or hear from Ray Noccia again.
Fat chance.
Part Two
NUMBER THIRTEEN
Chapter 25
MORNING LIGHT FLATTERED the trash dunes with a rosy glow, and seagulls screamed bloody murder as they swooped over the acres of garbage at the Sunshine Canyon landfill. Breakfast was served.
Justine pulled her Jag over to the side of the road and stared out at the landscape. I twirled the dial on her police band radio until the signal was clear. She opened her thermos, passed it over to me. I took a sip.
The coffee was black, unsugared. That’s the way Justine liked just about everything: straight up, no bullshit.
We hadn’t exchanged an intimate touch in more than two years, but sitting next to her in the close confines of the car, I found it tough not to reach over and take her hand. It had always been confusing, even when we were together.
“How’s it going?” she asked me.
Cops were picking over the dump across the road. We could hear them talking to base over the police band.
I said, “Andy Cushman has about twenty pissed-off former clients, any one of whom has the means, the opportunity, and especially the motive to kill him. So why kill Shelby instead? I’m not getting anywhere on it.”
“Sorry to hear that, Jack. But what I meant was, how’s it going for you?”
Actually, what she meant was, how was it going for me and Colleen—and I didn’t want to get into that with her. Instead I said, “I have a new case to work on. It’s heavy-duty and personal. You remember me telling you about my uncle Fred.”
“Football guy.”
“Yeah. He’s worried that some of the games are being fixed. Could result in a huge scandal, the biggest since the Black Sox in baseball.”
“Wow,” Justine said.
“I’m having dreams again,” I said.
Justine’s eyebrows lifted. I had wanted to talk to her, but now I was going to have to really talk. Tell a shrink you’re having dreams, it’s like dangling string for a kitten.
“Dreams about what?” she asked. “The same ones?”
So I told her. I described the vivid explosions, running across the field with someone I love over my shoulder, never making it to safety.
“Could be survivor’s guilt, I guess. What do you think, Jack?”
“I wish the dreams would stop.”
“You’re still funny,” she said, “with the one-liners.”
I opened the folder I had wedged under the armrest and looked at the photo that Bobby Petino had e-mailed to Justine this morning. It was a school portrait of a pretty sixteen-year-old girl named Serena Moses. She’d been reported missing last night. Serena lived in Echo Park, a section of East LA that Justine called “the red zone,” the Schoolgirl killing field.
Two hours after Serena’s parents called the police, an anonymous and untraceable call had come in to 911 saying that Serena’s body was here in the landfill.
Just then, voices came over the police radio, one sharper and louder than the others.
“I’ve got something. Could be human. Oh, Christ…”
“Let’s go,” I said, opening the car door on my side.
“No, Jack. I’ve got to do this alone. If you come with me, I’ll lose my street creds. Just hang tight.”
I said okay. Then I watched Justine cross the empty street and head toward where the police were already taping off a section of the stinking terrain.
Chapter 26
JUSTINE LIFTED HER hand in a wave to Lieutenant Nora Cronin, who gave her the customary dirty look before turning back to the black construction-grade trash bag lying like a crashed balloon at her feet.
Justine’s chest tightened as she remembered another schoolgirl who’d been dumped here a year ago encased in a similar black plastic bag. Her name was Laura Lee Branco, and she had been knifed through the heart.
Cronin cut the tie with a pocketknife, and the bag fell open.
An arm tumbled out, almost in slow motion, the palm and fingers outstretched. It took Justine a long, heart-stopping moment to understand what she was seeing.
Private Page 5