BLACK in the Box (12 page)

She edged to the side of the bar, where her favorite bartender was standing, watching the band with a rapt attention that made her heart sink.
If he starts singing along, I’ll break a bottle over his head
, she thought glumly, and was jarred from her violent reverie by her phone vibrating in her pants pocket.

Roxie moved to the bathroom area as she answered.

“Yeah?”

“Roxie, sorry to call so late.” It was Black.

“Hang on. I’m at a show.” She made her way into the bathroom, where the amplified music was dampened by the door and walls. “What’s up?”

“I’ve got a problem.”

“I’ve known that for a while.”

“Seriously. I need your help.”

“Are you drunk?”

“No. I wish. Worse. I’m in Long Beach.”

“Did you finally decide to admit you’re more DC than AC? West Hollywood’s closer. Although they have a certain fashion sense there…”

“Roxie, I’m serious.”

“So am I. What’s-her-name’s going to be devastated when you break the news. You are going to tell her, aren’t you?”

“I need you to come down here.”

“Or are you going to let her find out on her own? Come home to Roberto in bed wearing only a smile and your hat?”

“Please. It’s a computer thing.”

“Oh, wow. Like
The Matrix
? We’re all living in a holographic reality created by machines for our subjugation? Damn. I was betting on zombie apocalypse. Oh well.”

“I need to get into the system here, and nobody’s got the password.”

“Don’t you watch the movies? You’re supposed to have a super-nerdy hacker buddy you pay in porn or bitcoin or whatever who tells you it’s impossible for everyone…but him!”

“Are you almost done?”

“In geological time, we all are.”

“So can you come down here?”

“I’m at a party. Big names. Shakira and I are trading cupcake recipes.”

“I can offer two hundred bucks cash.”

“It’s almost midnight. That’s your best shot?”

“Three hundred.”

“Five hundred and I might get interested.”

“That’s extortion.”

“Hang on. I think Bieber wants to see my tats.”

“Fine, Roxie. How long will it take you to get here?”

“Long Beach? What part?”

“I’m at a Home World store on Santa Fe Avenue.”

“West Side!” Roxie said in her best Snoop Dog impression.

“Does that mean something?”

“Oh. I forgot that you only listen to big-band music.”

“Roxie…”

“What the hell are you doing there? That’s gun town, isn’t it?”

“Investigating a murder at the store.”

“Even the cops are afraid to go in there?”

“No, they were here all yesterday. The owner asked me to nose around.” Black paused. “It’s not that bad.”

“What do you need me to do?”

“I want you to look in the system and see if the victim had any files stored that might give us a clue as to why he was killed.”

“Oh, hey, was that the axe thing? I saw it on the news.”

“That’s the one.”

“And you’re there axing questions?”

“Very amusing, Roxie.”

“Oh, wait. Axle Rose is here!”

“Are we about done? Clock’s ticking.”

“Take something for that axeiety, boss.”

“I’m sure you’ll think up more on your way.”

“You bet your axe.”

Roxie returned to the floor and searched for Carl. She spied him near the entrance in an earnest conversation with a tall, spectral man who looked like the grim reaper with a bad perm. She beelined toward him and offered them both a wide smile before leaning in and planting a kiss on Carl’s sagging cheek.

“Got to run. An emergency at work,” she said.

“No! Come on. You just got here!” Carl protested.

“Two hours ago. You’ve just been so busy the time flew by.” She waggled her fingers at him. “Be a good boy.”

“I’m always good, Roxie,” he crooned.

“I think I just wet my pants, Carl,” she deadpanned. Both Carl and his companion laughed heartily and exchanged knowing glances. Roxie left them to their enjoyment of her bon mots, glad to be rid of the superficial crowd and the annoying plastic music.

After all, five hundred cash was walking-around money for the holidays, whereas all the party had to offer was an airhead bartender who was probably broker than Roxie, and Carl’s repellent advances, which were sure to get clumsier as the booze flowed.

Chapter 22

Anaheim Hills, California

“Who was that, Larry?” Bethany asked sleepily from the bed. Larry was standing in the bedroom doorway, phone in hand, lines of displeasure etched deep into his face.

“Business stuff.”

“At this hour?”

“That’s how it works.” He moved to the closet and pulled on a pair of jeans and a Versace silk shirt.

“You’re leaving?” she asked, sitting up.

His gaze lingered on her naked breasts, as perfect and firm as the best surgeons in town could make them, and nodded. “I’ve got to go to the store. Something’s come up.”

“Right now? Can’t it wait until morning?”

“I wish. Shouldn’t take too long.”

Bethany pouted. “I thought we’d have all night together. It’s been so long… I hate the hour here, hour there thing, Larry. I’ve told you that.”

“I know, baby. But duty calls. I’ll come back as soon as I can.”

She shrugged and played with the tips of her sun-streaked hair. “Then I’ll make myself a margarita or something.”

“You know where the tequila is.”

She swung her legs from beneath the sheets and raised one knee. “You sure I can’t talk you into staying?”

But Larry’s mind was already elsewhere. “Not tonight, Bethany. Like I said, I’ll be back in a snap. Have a drink, and save some energy for me.”

Her eyes lit up. “You got it.”

Larry strode into the great room and selected a set of keys hanging from hooks near the entryway. He opened the foyer closet, removed a dark gray hoodie, and slipped into it on the way to the six-car garage.

In addition to his Bentley, he had a Lamborghini, a Ferrari, a Porsche, and a Maybach – none of which would be suitable for this trip. He opened the door to a four-year-old Ford Expedition and climbed into its elevated cabin. The big engine roared to life, and he waited as the garage door rose behind him before backing out, careful not to hit Bethany’s aqua Toyota Tercel parked to one side.

He checked his watch and calculated how much time his errand would take. At the late hour with no traffic, no more than forty-five minutes each direction, and perhaps another twenty at his destination in South Los Angeles.

Larry could be back in Bethany’s arms in a few hours, tops.

He pulled down the long cobblestone drive to the coastal road, his face set with grim determination, and waited for his ornate wrought-iron gates to swing open before gunning the gas.

Why his partner in his side racket was coming apart at the seams puzzled him, but he attributed it to the stress of the murder at the store. What was more important was what he could do to protect himself in the event of…of the unthinkable.

Larry’s collaborators in Home World were gentlemen whose interests included gambling, loan-sharking, money laundering, extortion, and a host of other lucrative endeavors that generated mountains of cash that required investment to be sanitized. His idea of creating a new chain of big-box stores to compete with rivals like Costco, but with an emphasis on home improvement along with the usual foodstuffs, jewelry, furniture, and electronics, had been enthusiastically welcomed.

It was only after the first stores had opened that they proposed a new strategy to boost their returns: selling pirated electronics labeled as the genuine article. The margin on a fake tablet or knockoff big screen TV was astronomical compared with legitimate products, and his associates increased their profits by selling the genuine goods they swapped for the fakes in the store at cut-rate prices from the back of their trucks. It was a clean operation that was virtually risk free – not that Larry had any say in the matter.

Larry, being entrepreneurial, unknown to his investors had decided to trim off a portion of the goods and have his trusted employee sell them, splitting the proceeds. If his investors ever learned of his treachery, he would be buried in a building foundation somewhere in San Pedro. But they trusted Larry to level with them, and he didn’t have to share with them the insurance claims for missing or damaged goods – a normal amount of “shrinkage” was expected in the business, and it had been a tidy scheme until the Alec incident. Of course, it was more the principle of the thing than the paltry few thousand dollars of spending money he pocketed each shipment. Larry had learned growing up in Jersey City to play all the angles, and this was low-hanging fruit. To not do it violated some sense of predatory ethos that he’d developed from childhood – to not do it made him a chump.

But now he was exposed, and he was being forced to take corrective action. There was a weak link in the chain, but that could be dealt with. He wished he could do so by making a phone call, but unfortunately he was too well known among the locals that specialized in delicate matters, so he’d have to attend to it himself.

Larry didn’t mind getting his hands dirty.

It just annoyed him that he had been painted into a corner where he had no choice.

Chapter 23

Black hung up with Roxie and resisted the urge for a cigarette that resulted from his steady caffeine intake, and instead went in search of the next worker on his list: Lee Tran. He found the muscular stocker in the employee locker area. Black approached him and smiled at the photographs of Japanese street-racing cars affixed to the inside of the locker door.

“Hi, Lee. Got a minute?”

Lee shrugged. “Don’t suppose I have much choice. But I don’t know anything, so it won’t take too long.”

Black eyed the photos. “You like the Nissan GT-R, huh?”

Lee’s voice became animated. “Hell yeah. They got loops on YouTube of one taking a Lambo to school. It’s like as fast as a Ninja motorcycle.”

“I think I’ve seen that. Pretty impressive.”

“That hardly covers it.” He frowned. “But a hundred grand puts it outta my reach.”

“That your ride in the lot? The lowered 300ZX?”

“Damn straight. It’ll get up and go.”

“You race it?”

His face grew guarded. “It’s against the law to street race.”

“Oh, of course. I meant maybe take it to the track?”

“Not yet.”

“Let’s hit the break room,” Black suggested.

“Sure thing.”

Black let Lee lead the way and took in the elaborate tattoos on his arms and the ink that peeked from the collar of his shirt. When they entered the break room, Black continued trying to build rapport. “You ever clock your ride?”

“Yeah. It’ll do fours.”

“Wow. That’s Porsche fast.”

“Smoked my share of ’em.”

“So you’ve been working here for two years?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You like the job?”

“I’m still here.”

“Pretty awful about Alec, huh?”

“That shiz is sick. Straight-up twisted.”

“Any idea who’d want to put him down?”

Lee shook his head. “Like I said – I don’t know anything.”

“Let’s try what you do. How well did you know him?”

“Not well. Just regular work stuff. He was always in the office. I’m on the floor most of the shift.”

“You ever see him fight with anyone?”

“Naw. He wasn’t a fighter. More like a pencil neck.”

“You lift?” Black asked.

“When I have time.”

“What do you press?”

“Two-fifty.”

“Seriously?”

“No big deal. It’s mostly about diet and reps, not weight. You?”

“I used to,” Black lied. “Was Alec well-liked?”

“I got along with him.”

“Right, but how about everyone else?”

“Ask them.”

“Doesn’t it bother you that he was murdered by someone here?”

“Course. But what can I do about it? Boss isn’t going to pay me to stay at home. So I come to work. Anyone try to cut me, I’ll break ’em into pieces, straight up.”

“Any idea who did it?”

“Naw.”

“You think Bethany did it?”

“I don’t know what to think.” He frowned again. “But she’d have to be whacked to do it, you know what I’m saying?”

“Does she strike you as whacked?”

“Not really. She’s more of a lover, not a fighter,” Lee said with a laugh.

“Yeah?”

“Not like everyone here don’t know about it. I mean, two plus two, you dig? Some stuff’s simple.”

“Bethany’s love life? Was she involved with Alec?”

Lee laughed again. “No, dog. But it’s none of my business how she gets her groove on, you know? I just keep my head down.”

“How much is your Z worth?” Black asked, the thought suddenly occurring to him.

“Don’t know. Whatever someone’s willing to pay, I suppose. Why? You in the market?”

Black smiled again and shook his head. “No. I was just wondering if it was expensive.”

Lee shrugged. “Depends on who you talk to. It’s no Bentley, that’s for sure.”

“Yeah. I saw that. Pretty sweet.”

“I’ll say.”

Black returned to the case. “Did Alec party?”

“How would I know?”

“You never saw him high?”

“Like I said, I mind my own business.”

Black finished his questions, touching on whom else Lee had seen before Alec was found, probing for more information that wasn’t forthcoming. As Lee left, Black wondered what a stocker earned. Probably twelve bucks an hour, maybe a little more? He made a note to ask Larry. Lee’s car seemed above his pay grade; but then again, it could have been a gift from his parents, or he might have saved up, or won it – Black had no doubt that Lee was a street racer, and sometimes the races were for pink slips.

Next up was Matt, who added no new revelations other than to say that everyone working at Home World was honest and industrious.

“That’s rare, isn’t it? I’d have thought there’d be a lot of turnover.”

“Not really. If we find someone good, we try to keep them happy. It’s a two-way street,” Matt said, sounding like a junior executive at a high-tech firm.