Blond Cargo (29 page)

“Not brain scientists, the lot of ’em. So al-Yasiri’s Teflon? It was him. He knows I’m getting close.”

“That may be,” Leslie said, not convinced, “but he’ll be sharing the podium with the mayor, the cardinal, the city council, the downtown redevelopment committee, and the rest of Vargas Development Group tomorrow night. He’s one of the guests of honor. He’s a success story, Jack. Iraqi immigrant moves to the States, makes good, and gives back to the community. Speaks well for Los Angeles.”

“He’s dirty and I’m gonna take him down.”

“Any confusion as to why I didn’t invite you?”

“The DA’s office has a table?”

Jack had to admit being left out stung. She hadn’t even thought to mention it, he was that much of a political liability.

“Along with the police chief and half of the force. I’ll be there eating rubber chicken and hobnobbing with the elite, the up-and-comers, and the wannabes.”

“I’m hurt,” he said, making light of it. “I can hobnob. What the hell does that mean,
hobnob
?” he said, vamping, trying to get a handle on what he was really feeling. “Tommy already talked to my insurance company. You’ll love the new Lexus. It’s got more horse—”

“Bertolino!” Jack heard after the ding of the elevator door whooshing open.

“Christ.”

It was Tim Dykstra, the mayor’s security chief.

“You’re one slippery dude,” Dykstra said as he pushed through the crowded lobby and walked up to the couple. And then mock deferentially, “DDA Sager.”

Dykstra stepped too close to Leslie, who wasn’t a fan; extended his hand, which she shook; and side-passed the restraining order to Jack, who wanted to punch the guy out but accepted the document.

“So, you’re served. You know the drill: fifty yards away from Malic al-Yasiri and Raul Vargas, their persons and dwellings, and you are not to harass the aggrieved parties or anyone else in their families or on their staff.”

“Later,” Jack said to Leslie, and started out.

“Not done. Speaking of number one son, have you seen him around?”

“Haven’t had the displeasure.”

“I learn otherwise, you’re going down, wiseguy.”

Jack wasn’t going to take crap. He took a step toward Dykstra, who puffed out his chest and stood tall in the safety of police headquarters.

“Jack . . .” Leslie warned.

“Raul’s gone missing,” Dykstra said to Leslie. “Didn’t show up for work this morning, isn’t answering his phone. Missed a meeting for the gala. You get your invite, Jack?” An ugly smile oozed from his smug face. “Oh, that’s right, you’re persona non grata. You’ve managed to piss off every political ally you ever had.”

Then to Leslie, “You must be proud. Your boyfriend’s a real career-ender.”

Jack lunged and Dykstra jumped back a step, grinning as he walked around him toward the thick glass front doors.

“I’ll see you tomorrow night.” He directed it over his shoulder at Leslie as he exited the building.

Leslie turned on Jack, red-faced.

“Really, Jack? You were going to punch Dykstra out in the lobby of police headquarters? He might be a major asshole, but really? Are you the only person in the room that you care about?” she asked incredulously.

Jack took a deep breath, wishing he could disappear. Embarrassed by his lack of restraint.

“You’ve got anger issues, Jack. And the control of a sixteen-year-old.”

Leslie knew this wasn’t the time or the place to continue the conversation and followed in Dykstra’s wake.

Jack watched Leslie’s receding figure, knowing she was right, and pushed his emotions to the side. If Raul Vargas was truly missing and not sleeping off a drunk, Jack was traversing some rocky shoals.

He might have to take down his client along with the perp.

41

Jack was driving his second rental car of the week. He went to Hertz because Enterprise wouldn’t accept the liability on another premium car. Jack had a bad risk profile, they said. Couldn’t blame them, he thought. His Mustang wouldn’t be out of the shop for another day, and so Jack chose a fully loaded Blue Mica Lexus IS F. Might as well keep things interesting. With a V-8 and 416 horses, Jack hoped he could stay ahead of the trouble. His phone was paired to the car’s Bluetooth and the GPS would get him where he needed to go.

Jack pulled out of the underground parking and was immediately caught in heel-to-toe downtown traffic. So much for 416 horses, he thought. The phone rang.

“So I rattled his cage. I didn’t mention Angelica, but he’s feeling the heat. I gave him a lot to think about,” was Nick’s opening gambit. No hello, none needed.

“Did you get anything out of Mustafa?”

“
Negativo.
Deaf and dumb. His ‘suit’ was sitting next to him in the hospital room and kept shaking his head. Our man Mustafa zipped it up tighter than a boll weevil’s ass.”

“Very graphic. And the girl?”

“Nothing.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah, so, after the interview with Mustafa, the lawyer escorted the sweet young thing out and away with a promise to deliver her if we had any more questions. Gallina was apoplectic, but immigration had signed off on it. Are your guys sitting on the compound?”

“We’ve got it covered. I’ve got them taking down license numbers and comparing them to the list we made at the club. He’s moved in at least eight of his men. They come and go. One at the guard shack and roving security at night. He’s got a guesthouse the size of a hotel.”

“Doesn’t seem right.”

“I’m crying for him. So, I hear Raul is MIA,” Jack said.

“Don’t I know it. They found his car at Paradise Cove, unlocked. He never made it home.”

“Maybe he got lucky and was too wasted to drive.”

“The bartender reported he was feeling no pain, but he left the bar alone. Doesn’t mean he didn’t meet someone in the parking lot. Security camera doesn’t shoot a frame that wide. Some uniforms interviewed a few of the neighbors who live in the double-wides up on the cliff, but no one saw dick. Whatta you think?”

“I think the prick’s getting more attention in twelve hours than the dead girls got in a month. I don’t like where this is heading.”

“I know where you’re going with this. But don’t jump to conclusions. A long list of people have him in their sights.”

“What was your take on al-Yasiri?”

“Piece of work. He’s like the head of the snake. Kinda guy that walks around with a smile on his face while he’s gutting you. Always looking for an exit play.”

“I feel like I’m running on empty. I’ve got to get inside the compound.”

Nick’s tone shifted. “You’re looking at jail time.”

“And Angelica Cardona’s looking at a grave. You mind reaching out to Dick Trammel?”

“What do you need?”

“Cruz said it’s something called a negative pulse disrupter. He also called it an EMP. Says I slap it on the main computer, it scrambles everything in the house and the security cameras on the system go belly-up. I can cut the juice leading into the compound. Cruz has that in pocket. It’s shutting off the computer systems that might be tied into an auxiliary power source I need help with. I’ll need some time to get in and out of there in one piece.”

“Time frame?”

“An hour max. Eight to nine. When Malic is tuxed up and basking in the limelight.”

“I don’t like the odds.”

“A pair of night-vision goggles wouldn’t hurt.”

“Trammel drinks Macallan.”

“Tell him I’ve got a bottle of Eighteen with his name on it.”

“I can’t promise.”

“Later, pard.” And Jack clicked off, knowing Nick would deliver if possible.

Jack didn’t have a plan B. It wasn’t his preferred way to operate, but it had never stopped him before.

It was time to face the lion.

Kayla stood in the kitchen, a keen eye trained on the pool house. She had witnessed Hassan cutting across the lawn from the guesthouse with a suitcase and entering Malic’s private office.

She wanted to investigate, but she was wary. She strolled by the pool, pulling her hijab tight around her face. She clipped a few yellow long-stemmed roses, trying to look normal, and made a mental note to remind the gardener to dust for mildew. When she glanced into the pool house window, the office appeared to be empty. Her heart started racing. She was so overwhelmed, she didn’t remember walking back into the house.

By the kitchen sink she clipped every thorn off the roses so that her sweet daughter would not prick her perfect fingers. As she snipped, her mind drifted to the missing girl’s father and what he must have been feeling.

While she was arranging the elegant flowers in a jade-green cloisonné vase, Hassan exited the office, locked up, and walked rapidly across the lawn, lost in thought.

And empty-handed.

Kayla heard the limo’s engine turn over in the front of the house, ran into the living room, and peered through the gossamer curtains. Hassan waved to an unseen man as he drove past the guard shack onto Seaside Lane and back toward the main road.

Kayla dialed Malic’s number at the office and was told by Halle he was up to his neck in meetings until five and, oh, that she really looked forward to seeing her at the gala.

It was now or never.

She checked on Saarah, who was taking an afternoon nap while her nanny read a magazine. Kayla grabbed the spare keys that were hidden in the laundry room, stepped through the French doors, and walked rapidly across the lawn past the garden and pool. Inserting the key, she quickly closed the heavy door behind her. She looked out the window and checked that all was clear.

It was quiet in the office, but she didn’t feel safe. She knew she should have her head examined, snooping around like this. But the man she had met that morning, Jack Bertolino, had seemed sincere. He’d made her think on the drive home. Thoughts she had never entertained before came to life. Nor could she deny what she had seen. On Malic’s own television. In this very room. And the woman’s blood test was for what, her well-being?

Kayla had to have answers one way or the other. She started her search in the bathroom and came up empty. The walls were solid and she found she had a hard time staring at her own image in the mirror. Was she ashamed, or afraid of what she might find? Afraid of the truth?

She wasn’t raised to be afraid. It wasn’t the example she wanted to set for her daughter. Her mother and grandmother were strong, independent women. Under the thumb of no man.

But she’d fallen into a very comfortable life with her daughter. Safe from the bombs and political and religious strife at home, living in luxury under the protection of the U.S. government. Did she really want to keep digging? Was she crazy? All she had to do was put the keys back where she’d found them and everything would return to normal.

No, that was no longer assured. What did that man say today? Help him or she would go down with the evil. Kayla knew what she had seen. She couldn’t erase the young girl’s image. But could she live with the truth?

Kayla walked back into the office. Her hands rifled through the leather-bound books. They flew over every surface of the mahogany bookshelves in the rear corner of the room.

She found it on the second pass, on the second row from the top. Kayla had to stand on tiptoes to reach it. A smooth button on the side of the wooden panel.

She depressed the button and that section of bookshelf hinged open a crack. A faint light emanated from the other side.

Kayla sucked in a breath, pulled the secret door open wider, and stepped through.

Angelica Cardona stood stone still as she heard a key turn. The sound came from the steel door on the right side of the exterior hallway. It had never been opened once in the thirty-seven days of her imprisonment, and now, it had clicked twice in a half hour. She felt nothing but dread.

Kayla took one step past the door into the hallway, turned to face the Plexiglas wall, and stared straight into the eyes of Angelica Cardona.

Neither woman spoke.

Kayla’s striped hijab hung loose, and Angelica could see she also had blond hair, and a remarkably similar face.

Angelica wore a short skirt, sleeveless blouse, bare legs and feet, looking younger than her years. A half-filled suitcase lay open on the bed behind her.

They stood frozen. Time seemed frozen.

“My name is Angelica Cardona, and I need help,” she finally said, breaking the silence. “Please help me,” she added slowly, not knowing if the woman who stood on the other side of her clear prison wall spoke the language.

Kayla wanted to run, wanted to scream, but she stood silent. It was all true. Worst-case scenario. The father of her child was a flesh peddler. She had to force herself to breathe. Her ears were ringing and her breath erupted in short silent gasps. She reached out to steady herself, to keep from passing out, and pressed her hand against the Plexiglas wall. She knew the room for what it was. A prison cell.

Angelica instinctively put her hand on the other side of the Plexiglas and mirrored Kayla’s hand.

“My name is Angelica,” she repeated, her voice steady and measured.

Kayla pulled her hand away as if she’d been burned.

“I’ve been kidnapped, and I don’t know where I am or where I’m going. I don’t want to die. I’m being held against my will. Do you understand? Please, for the love of God, please open the door and let me out.”

Kayla’s cell phone rang. The electronic tone echoed in the hallway and startled them both. She grabbed the phone out of her pocket, looked at the incoming call, and her frantic eyes lasered back at the girl.

Angelica could read her indecision. “Please.”

Kayla sucked in a ragged breath, her eyes taking in the hallway, the locked door to the cell, and the steel door at the far end of the hallway. Then she backpedaled out of view.

“Don’t go!” Angelica shouted, her voice thick with desperation. “Please help me! I don’t want to die, please . . .”

Help me
was the last thing Kayla heard as she slammed the steel-plated door shut and locked it with the ornate key.

The phone call was from Malic, and she ran. Her eyes filled with tears, and she stumbled and fell down hard, cutting her knee and the palm of her hand as her phone skittered forward on the tiled floor of the tunnel.