“What are you doing here?” Lyndon asked Brody. “Aren’t you working kind of late?”
“I have a confession to make.”
“Aha. An insurance salesman with a secret.”
“I don’t sell insurance. I’m a private detective hired by your wife.”
“I knew something wasn’t kosher with you two.” Lyndon walked to the French window, took in the pool, and turned to face Brody. “I can’t say I’m surprised. Why did she hire you?”
“I believe your life is in danger.”
“My life?”
“You, your wife, your daughter.”
“Is this some kind of threat?”
“It’s a warning. Somebody’s willing to kill you to get one of your suitcases.”
“That home invasion,” said Lyndon, nodding in understanding. He rubbed his eye. “She hired you instead of calling the cops, huh?”
“That’s one way of looking at it.”
“Wait a minute. You were at our house before the home invasion. I don’t get it.”
“You also received a human head in the mail.”
“She told you about that?”
“Yeah.”
“I knew she couldn’t keep a secret.” Lyndon heaved a sigh. “Well, at least she didn’t tell the cops. You’re not reporting to the cops, are you?”
“I don’t have anything to do with them.”
“Why did you have to go and hire him?” Lyndon asked Deirdre. “And you hired that bodyguard, too. What’s his name?”
“Our lives are in danger, in case you haven’t noticed,” answered Deirdre.
“His name’s Victor Lopez,” said Brody.
“OK,” said Lyndon. “Just don’t tell anybody about any of this. My career’s at stake.”
“Your life’s at stake. The question is, why?”
Chapter 84
Lyndon crossed the floor to the wet bar and retrieved a chilled can of beer from the refrigerator. He popped the can open and took a pull on the beer.
It was dark outside, Brody could see through the closed French windows, the pool glowing aqua under the wash of an array of outdoor electric lamps.
“What’s in the suitcase the gangbanger wanted?” he said.
“Clothes,” said Lyndon.
“Clothes? He wanted to cut your throat and rape your wife for a suitcase full of clothes?”
“Just clothes and business papers.”
“What kind of business papers?”
“I can’t remember exactly.”
“That’s all that was in the suitcase?”
Lyndon nodded yes.
“Why would gangbangers want business papers?” said Brody.
“It doesn’t make any sense to me, either,” said Lyndon, his face beading with sweat.
“What happened to the suitcase?”
“Good question. I can’t find it.”
“Did you forget where you put it?”
“I know where I put it. It’s not there. Somebody swiped it.” Lyndon massaged his forehead. “I need that suitcase.”
“You need what’s in it.”
Lyndon glared at Brody. “Will you stop editing my comments?”
“Who do you think took it?”
Lyndon screwed up his face in thought. “Maybe Lupe.”
“Lupe?”
“The maid.”
“Lupe wouldn’t steal anything,” said Deirdre. “We’ve had her for our maid for ten years, and we’ve never had any problems with her.”
“Who else could it be?” said Lyndon.
“Could a thief have broken into our house and stolen it?”
“Think what you’re saying. Why would a thief steal one thing—a suitcase for the love of Mike—and nothing else? It makes no sense.”
“It depends on what was in the suitcase,” said Brody.
Lyndon gazed into his beer can. “I told you.”
“I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s in that suitcase,” said Brody.
“How many times do I have to tell you?” said Lyndon, confronting Brody.
“Till it makes sense.”
“You can’t help, period. You’ll probably have another heart attack any minute now.”
“I didn’t have a heart attack. It was food poisoning,” said Brody, rising to his feet. “What kind of business papers were in the suitcase?”
“The usual.”
“Were they valuable?”
“Only to me.”
“Would somebody else want them?”
“I just told you, they were only valuable to me. Are you stupid or what?”
Valerie entered the living room in skintight jeans and a cerise tube top.
“I wish Busby was here,” she said, plaintively.
Deirdre cut across the floor to her and hugged her. “We all do, honey.”
“I guess my suitcase grew legs and walked away,” said Lyndon, snickering.
“We better find it before those gangbangers come back,” said Brody.
“How many of them are there?” said Deirdre, her eyes wide, releasing Valerie.
“There’s more than one,” said Brody, remembering the gangbanger biker he had blown away in Hollywood and the shooter that had fired at him at Rakowski’s office in Culver City.
He figured the assailants were all part of the same MS-13 crew that were after the suitcase—at least the ones he had encountered so far were. He dreaded to think there were others beside MS-13. Somebody else might have sent Busby’s head to Deirdre, for all Brody knew.
Then there was Rakowski’s murder, Brody decided. MS-13 wasn’t active in Cabo San Lucas, as far as he knew—though he was no expert on gangbangers. So who was responsible for shooting Rakowski? There had to be somebody else other than MS-13 involved in these attacks. Or was Rakowski’s murder the isolated random act of a mugger, like the Cabo cops claimed?
And what was really in the suitcase? wondered Brody. Lyndon had said clothes one time and business docs another. The guy was lying. Could the secret government documents Peltz wanted concerning the conspiracy be in the suitcase? Why would MS-13 want secret government docs? Brody couldn’t get his head around it.
“Why do they all want a stupid suitcase?” said Deirdre.
“Is there something you’re not telling us?” Brody asked Lyndon.
“No,” said Lyndon.
“It would make my job easier if I knew exactly what’s in that suitcase.”
“And what is your job?”
“Helping you.”
Lyndon shot him a skeptical glance. “I don’t see how you can help. You’re one guy—a rent-a-cop who’s prone to heart attacks.”
“You got guys after you that will stop at nothing to get what’s in that suitcase of yours. But you won’t call the cops. So I’m your best bet.”
“Then I’m lost,” deadpanned Lyndon.
On the verge of answering, Brody started when he heard one of the French windows burst, glass tinkle to the floor, and a thud against the wall opposite the window.
“Everybody down,” he cried, diving to the floor.
Chapter 85
Prostrate on the floor, Brody kept his eyes riveted on what he could see in the nighttime obscurity of the backyard, which wasn’t much beyond the lamps lighting the pool. He could see a small hole in the French window the diameter of a bullet and shards of broken glass strewing the living-room floor.
Recalling the thud he had heard, he rolled onto his back and scoped out the wall where an object had impacted it.
“What’s happening?” said Lyndon, hiding behind the wet bar.
“Stay down,” said Brody.
He saw a crossbow bolt buried in the stucco wall opposite the French windows.
“Where’s your bodyguard?” said Lyndon, lifting his head above the wet bar’s counter. “I thought he was supposed to be out there preventing attacks like this.”
“Stay down,” said Brody, motioning to Lyndon with his arm.
Another
burst through the French window’s glass pane followed, shattering glass, and another bolt buried itself in the wall a few inches below the first bolt.
“What should we do?” said Deirdre, hiding behind the sofa. “Can you call your bodyguard to tell him we’re under attack?”
Brody picked up on a small paper wrapped around each bolt sticking out of the wall. The papers were located just below the fletches on each bolt.
He heard the phht of a silenced pistol firing outside. He didn’t see a bullet hole in the window. He figured the silenced pistol must be Victor’s. Victor must have spotted the assailant.
Brody sprang to the light switch and killed the lights, preventing the archer from seeing them if he was still out there. Light from the outside lamps around the pool continued to spill into the living room, however.
He darted over to the wall and inspected the bolts embedded in the stucco wall. Rubber bands secured the papers wrapped around the shafts of the bolts. He dug his handkerchief out of his rear trouser pocket and used it to awkwardly slip the paper out from under the rubber band, unwind the paper from the first bolt, and read the writing on the note without touching the paper. It wasn’t easy manipulating the handkerchief, but he didn’t want to leave his fingerprints on the paper or smudge any that were already there.
In the dim light he could read Where Is It? printed on the paper with a Sharpie. He unfastened the paper on the other bolt. Leave It at the Front Door said the note.
“What are you doing?” said Lyndon, squinting at him from behind the counter in the shadows.
“The archer put messages on his bolts.”
“What do they say?” said Deirdre, bobbing her head above the back of the sofa to see what Brody was doing.
“Where Is It? And Leave It at the Front Door.”
“Is it MS-13 again?” said Lyndon.
“I don’t know. I have to check with Victor.”
Brody tossed the papers onto the sofa cushion, replaced his handkerchief in his rear trouser pocket, withdrew his SIG P365 from his shoulder rig, and stole toward the French windows, straining his eyes to discern the archer in the gloom of night. He didn’t see anyone.
Circumspectly, he opened a French window and slipped out into the darkness, gun in hand. He heard a car’s tires screeching on the street in front of the Foxes’ house.
Moments later he made out a silhouette cutting across the backyard toward the pool deck’s cement perimeter.
Brody leveled his automatic at the dark figure, unable to make out who it was in the night.
“Hold it, or I’ll shoot,” said Brody.
The figure froze in his tracks. “It’s me.”
Brody recognized Victor’s voice and, relaxing, lowered his piece.
“All right, Victor. Is that archer still out there?”
Victor edged into the wash of the outdoor lamps that bordered the pool.
“No,” he said. “I got off a shot at him, but I must’ve missed in the dark.”
“Was that his car I heard?”
“Yeah. That guy moves on cat’s paws. I had no idea he was in the yard till I heard the windowpane break.”
“He was using a crossbow, too, so his weapon made no noise.”
“I was in the marines. I should’ve been able to hear him,” said Victor, shaking his head. “I’m trained for this stuff. Maybe I’m losing it. I couldn’t hear his footsteps at all.”
“Either you’re losing it, or the shooter’s a professional hunter.”
“I still should’ve been able to hear him,” said Victor, kicking himself, wedging his silenced SIG P938 inside his waistband.
“Are you sure he didn’t have a partner?” said Brody, surveying the dark backyard.
“He was alone. I made sure.”
They headed into the living room, as Lyndon flicked its lights on.
Chapter 86
“I wish these people would stop attacking us,” said Deirdre, as Brody and Victor entered the living room.
“They’re not gonna stop till they get what they’re looking for,” said Brody.
“Did you kill him?” Lyndon asked Victor.
Victor shook his head no. “I may’ve winged him. I couldn’t tell in the dark.”
“How did you let him get so close to us? You’re supposed to be our bodyguard.”
“Whoever you got coming after you is good. I’m not gonna mince words with you. He knows what he’s doing, and he’s gonna be tough to stop.”
“Did you see his face?”
“I didn’t see him at all. I saw his crossbow glint in the moonlight, and I saw movement.”
“Then it could be anyone,” said Lyndon, exasperated.
“I suggest you report it to the cops.”
“No, no. No cops. Cops and publicity go hand in hand. I don’t want any publicity.”
“If you couldn’t see him, I doubt any cops would’ve seen him either,” Brody told Victor.
“But they have a presence, which acts as a deterrent,” said Victor.
“You call the cops, you’re outta here,” said Lyndon. “Do you want the job or not?”
“I’m not calling any cops. That decision is up to you. I used a silencer because I didn’t want the neighbors to hear gunfire.”
“Do you think they heard anything?”
“I doubt it. I didn’t even hear a neighbor’s dog barking when the archer was in the neighborhood. I’m telling you this guy’s good. Some kind of stealth ninja or something.”
Lyndon opened the refrigerator behind the wet bar and grabbed a Corona longneck.
“Why don’t we just give them the suitcase and be done with them?” said Deirdre.
“Because we don’t have it, honey,” said Lyndon.
“Why do they want a suitcase full of clothes and useless business documents so bad?”
“Beats me,” said Lyndon, knocking back the Corona.
“I don’t know how much more of this I can take,” said Deirdre, collapsing on the sofa.
“It’s not over yet by a long shot,” said Brody. “This is a prelude to the main event.”
Deirdre groaned. “Why are they dragging it out?”
“To make you suffer. They want you and your family demoralized before they attack in force.”
“Was it another MS-13 gangbanger?” said Lyndon.
“We can’t be sure of that. You need to concentrate on finding that suitcase. Once we get our hands on it, we’ll have something to bargain with.”
“You need to stop telling me what to do,” said Lyndon, raising his voice. “You couldn’t even keep this nut off my property. You and your bodyguard. A couple of Keystone cops.”
He belted down his beer.
Valerie wandered into the living room.
“What happened?” she said, seeing how disconcerted everyone looked.
“Everything’s fine now,” said Deirdre.
“It doesn’t look fine,” said Valerie, her nose running.
“Somebody tried to break in. They’re gone now.”
“Why’s everybody trying to kill us?” she said, sniffling, her hands twitching, walking around the living room in agitation.
“Calm down, honey. It’s all right now.”
“How can I calm down? Why are they trying to kill me? First they killed Busby, and now they want to kill me.”
“They’re not after you, dear. They want something Dad has.”
Valerie withdrew a handkerchief from her purse and blew her nose, her eyes watery.
“That doesn’t explain why they want to kill me,” she said.
“You need to calm down,” said Deirdre. “You’re stressed out.”
“For Christ’s sake, they’re trying to kill me. How am I supposed to calm down?”
“Do you know where my blue suitcase is, Val?” said Lyndon.
“People are trying to kill me, and all you care about is your blue suitcase?” said Valerie.
“This is important.”
“My death is
n’t important?” said Valerie in exasperation.
“I didn’t say that.”
“I’m the one they’re trying to kill, not you.”
“Why do you say that?” said Brody, who had been listening in earnest to the conversation.
“Because it’s true,” said Valerie.
“No, it’s not,” said Deirdre. “This has nothing to do with you.”
She got off the sofa and walked over to Valerie to comfort her.
“Leave her alone,” said Deirdre, frowning at Brody. “Can’t you see she’s stressed out?”
Lyndon slammed his longneck down on the wet bar’s counter. “She knows where the blue suitcase is.”
“If she wasn’t paranoid before, she is now,” said Deirdre. “Thanks a lot, Lyndon.”
She ushered the sniffling Valerie out of the living room.
Chapter 87
“You handled that well,” said Brody.
“Mind your own business,” said Lyndon. “Or I’ll sic the cops on you.”
“You’re not gonna call the cops. You’re afraid of them.”
Lyndon fixed snake eyes on Brody. “Val knows where my blue suitcase is.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because . . . ,” Lyndon trailed off, keeping his dark thoughts to himself as he stared at the floor.
“I’m going back outside to take up my post,” said Victor, and strode out through the open French window.
“I hear you’re running an escort service at Pickers Talent,” Brody told Lyndon.
Lyndon snapped up his head to stare at Brody’s face. “Who told you that garbage?”
“I’m not at liberty to say. Do you deny it?”
“Of course, I deny it.”
“You do manage the careers of actresses and models?”
“I do. But you’re casting an unsavory spin on a perfectly legit and decent profession. Why do you have it in for talent managers?” As if to himself Lyndon added with a snigger, “What can I expect from a muckraking snoop who peeks through peepholes to earn a sleazy living?”
“You don’t think of yourself as a high-end pimp?”
“No way, buddy. I choose what’s best for my talented artists. That’s what talent managers do.”
“I’m not your buddy.”
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