Cicero's Dead (5 page)

She sat back and tugged at her skirt again, knees
pressed together. “For a long time I did everything I could to help my brother,
at least I thought I did, but the world was just too powerful. When Richard was
15, we moved from Brentwood to the Hollywood Hills. He started hanging out with
a group of rich delinquents, and one night they broke into the house of an
elderly lady and tied her up, just for kicks. They drank her liquor and got
wasted. Two of them passed out, but Richard woke up, snuck out and came back
home. He woke me up at three in the morning, terrified. He knew he’d really
messed up.” Jade shook her head. “Somehow the old woman managed to untie
herself and called the police, who got there just in time to arrest Richard’s
friends. Naturally, they rolled over on him and daddy just about had a heart
attack. I’d never seen him that mad. I don’t think it was so much what Richard
had done; they didn’t hurt the lady, just scared her half to death, but rather
the fact he was so damned stupid. The prosecutors took this very seriously and
he was lucky to only get two years in Youth Camp. There was talk of trying him
as an adult, which would have been disastrous. Nonetheless, when he got out, he
was different. He never talked about it, but I could see it in his eyes. He
went back to school and even did pretty well for a while; he’s far from dumb.
As we got older we started going out together on the weekends. I went to USC
and took pre-law but after graduating from high school, Richard didn’t do much,
just waited for life to come to him.”

“I suppose that’s when he got interested in
knives.”

Jade thought for a moment. “Actually, that was
earlier.
 
Cicero used to always say
that a knife was a great equalizer. Richard apparently took that to heart.”

“Apparently.” She looked at me quizzically, but I
didn’t comment further.

“Part of the reason I prolonged my relationship
with Ron was because I thought he might be good for Richard. They seemed to
like each other and I thought Ron was a pretty stable, normal guy. The truth is
I was grasping at straws. I’ve been doing that for a long time with Richard.”

“Jade, unfortunately Ron is a little too normal.
He said no when Richard wanted him to say yes.”

“That’s Ron,” she replied ruefully, “just an
average guy.” She brightened momentarily. “You know, he’s really a very good
actor. I don’t know about the movies, but he’s excellent on the stage. I saw
him last fall in a local production of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, put on by a
Culver City theater workshop. He played the alcoholic husband, the character
Paul Newman played in the movie version. He got a standing ovation.”

Her cell phone rang and she looked at the screen.
“I have to take this.”

I smiled,
‘sure.’

“Hello, James…yes, he’s right here.”

She handed me the phone. I could smell her perfume
on it and wondered if, just for a moment, if this was as close as I was ever
going to get to her lips. The thought evaporated when I heard his voice.
“Nick,” barked Halladay in what is best described as hard, authoritative. “I
need to talk to you right away at my office. Something’s come up that you
should know about.”

“I can be there in 30.”

“Sooner if you can. You know where we are and
don’t say anything to Jade.”

I stood up and walked away out of earshot, passing
in front of the homeless guy. Perhaps disturbed by my presence, he pulled his
head down out of the clouds, watching me vaguely as if there were an invisible
film between us.

“About what?”

“Her father. I assume you’ve figured it out by
this point.”

“Correct.”

“We’ll tell her, of course, but before we do, we
need to be sure what the fuck we’re talking about.”

I couldn’t argue with that. “Agreed.”

“Tell her to lay low and be careful. She’s kind of
like a daughter to me and it would kill me if anything happened to her.”

“On my way.” I handed her the phone. “Jade, you
have to stay alert.
 
I’ll see you
after work in the lobby at Waldrop & Hemsley, and we’ll decide what to do.”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s a very good chance we’re being followed
right now.”

Her eyes widened and I saw the fear in them.

I flicked my eyes toward the homeless guy who had
been contemplating his naval. She looked at him and frowned. He stood up, gave
us a quizzical look, and wandered off across the garden.

Jade’s hand flew to her mouth.
 
“Oh shit, that’s Officer Koncak.”

We took a cab to her office, which was a few
blocks away in California Plaza, on Grand Avenue, and I escorted her clear to
the 32nd floor. We paused for a moment in front of the glass doors.

“I trust you.
 
Please don’t let me down.” The doors opened inward and it was tough to
watch her go. I headed back down the elevator and hit the street.

Halladay, Reynolds, Tosh & Mukaskey takes up
several floors of the old Southern California Edison Building at One Bunker
Hill. The status of a pricey white collar law firm is measured by how much
empty space they can afford to waste. The receptionist’s desk stood alone in
the middle of a huge expanse of gleaming hardwood floor. I squinted at the
meaningless art that was so distant, I would’ve needed binoculars to make it
out.
 
These are the trappings of
power, a sense of entitlement so profound that wasted space becomes a virtue
and mediocre art simply the shrug of indifference.

The pretty blonde receptionist smiled. “How can I
help you?”

“Nick Crane to see Mr. Halladay.”

She nodded, dialed and purred quietly down the
line. A few moments later, another young, pretty secretary came out.

“This way please, Mr. Crane.”

She led me across the endless hardwood, through
glass doors, up escalators, around a good-sized gymnasium, down a hallway and
up a private elevator that opened into a high-ceilinged anteroom, with busts of
noted legal figures of yesteryear mounted on the walls. Finally, we passed
through an open door into James Halladay’s expensively furnished office suite.
A smile played across his mouth as she smiled at him. He nodded at her, fixed
his gaze on me and came forward, hand outstretched.

“Good to finally meet you, Nick.”

His handshake was crisply efficient. Thick
chested, his iron-grey hair rumpled just enough to indicate that this was a man
with the confidence not to care. I was in the presence of a powerhouse. He knew
it and knew that I knew it.

“What can I get you to drink? Perrier, Evian, iced
coffee?” He crossed to a refrigerator set against the wall under a photograph
of Chief Justice Cardoza.

“Iced coffee.”

Halladay handed me a Starbucks Frappuccino. He had
gripped an Evian, and motioned me to a brace of white leather armchairs, facing
a mahogany grandfather clock, which struck 3:00 as we sat down. The leather was
cold and I stifled an impulse to shiver. I took a long swallow of my
Frappuccino.

Sipping his drink, Halladay looked at me
thoughtfully. “When I brought you into this case, I had no idea it was going to
turn out to be so complicated. I’m sure you have questions. I know mistakes
have been made, but I don’t believe they’re fatal. At least I hope not.”

He paused as if expecting a reassuring reply. I
took another sip and waited.

The moment was not lost on him. He half-smirked
and continued, “I was friends with Cicero for a long time, and have represented
him since the beginning. Because of my long-standing career, I was able to keep
his sentence down when he went to Soledad and after his release, I represented
him through all his business ventures. Of course, he wouldn’t always take my
advice.”

“You knew about his narcotics dealing?”

“I’ve heard you’re the soul of discretion. That
must not change.”
 
He locked eyes
with me. His were like cannons staring out through portholes, ready to fire at
the slightest provocation.

“I understand.”

“Good. The world operates in peculiar ways. Did
you know that George W. Bush’s grandfather was Adolf Hitler’s American banker?”

“Uh--”

“--Or that Joe Kennedy was a rum-runner? Our 19th
century shipping magnates ran opium. Citibank is sitting on 80 billion dollars
worth of bad paper. Why does this happen? Why is it allowed? It happens because
powerful people are greedy and really don’t care who gets hurt.”

“Are you justifying Lamont’s dealing?”

“All nations operate in a nexus of power that has
little, if anything, to do with common notions of ethics and morality. What is
nonetheless important is loyalty and that loyalty must be absolute. Do I make
myself clear?”

I nodded slowly. “Absolutely.”

“Good. Then we can go forward. I’m sure you have
questions.”

“Just two, or rather one with two parts. How and
when did you become aware that Cicero Lamont was not actually killed in a
hit-and-run?”

“That’s the rub. I should have been on to it
earlier. I found out two hours ago when the death certificate arrived in the
mail. Here, let me show you.” He rose, crossed to his desk, picked up a piece of
paper and handed it to me, shaking his head.

It was signed by a Dr. Joseph Tarkanian. Cicero
had died at home on August 16, 2007.
 
Myocardial infarction. The document seemed entirely unremarkable.

“It was the birthday of a Spanish diplomat, whom I
represent in his American business interests and I was in Ibiza, staying with
mutual friends. I was pursuing a 28 year old woman who didn’t care that I’m old
enough to be her grandfather. One thing led to another, and when it became
clear that she was mine for the taking, I turned off my phone and bedded her.”

“Expensive?”

He ignored me. “My staff have instructions not to
contact me when I’m on vacation, unless it’s an emergency. When it became
obvious that my young beauty was not going to wake up, I got out of bed and
checked my voicemail. Lindsay had apparently thought that the death of one of
my oldest clients was sufficient cause to leave a message.”

“Efficient.”

“You’re the master of understatement.”

I smiled. He didn’t.

“Anyway, it was Saturday morning, which meant it
was around midnight, Friday, in California. I had to wait ‘til evening to
contact anyone. Cicero was dead, so as it really made no difference, my young
lady and I spent the day swimming and sunbathing.”

I tried hard not to envision Halladay in a speedo,
tan and leathery, an old satyr cavorting on crystalline beaches with his
youthful trophy, but the horror of it was already etching its way into my
memory.

“I called Lindsay at home at 9:00 a.m. California
time. She informed me that an Officer Fishburne had phoned Friday afternoon
with the news that Cicero had been killed, and the Department had been unable
to contact his next of kin. Although his body had been badly mangled, his face
was largely intact.”

“Allowing for the dental record ID.”

“Yes and Nick, at that moment, I felt the cold
fingers of death creep down my spine. I had been very fond of Cicero. He wasn’t
necessarily a good man, but he was a real man and he was my friend.”

“Who ID’d the body?”

He gave an almost imperceptible shrug. “I called
Dominique and even though we’ve never been friends, we’ve always respected one
another. She didn’t take it well. Estranged or not, you don’t disconnect
overnight from someone you’ve spent over twenty years with. Dominique requested
that I make arrangements to have Cicero cremated and buried at Forest Grove.”

He drained his water and grabbed another, spun the
cap and took a long drink.

“In retrospect, I should have flown back to L.A.
immediately, and not waited as long as I did to contact Jade. I just couldn’t
bear to make the phone call.” Halladay paused and his grey eyes misted.

“Yeah, those calls are tough to make.”

He nodded. “Instead, I stayed there for another
three days. Cicero’s death reminded me of my own mortality, which I denied by
pretending I was still young and in love. On Tuesday morning, my new girlfriend
told me she was married and lived in Minneapolis with an insurance executive.
Somehow I wasn’t surprised. We flew back to the States together and separated
at LaGuardia.
 
It was not a heartfelt
good-bye.”

I felt no sympathy and wondered how many times
Halladay had had his way with pretty young things, based on his position and
innate power. In the silence, we both knew it was time for me to make the next
move.

“When I met Jade just before you phoned, we were
followed by Officer Koncak, disguised as a homeless person. He’s the same
officer who contacted her, along with an Officer Fishburne, when she got back
to L.A.”

Alarm played across Halladay’s leathery face,
settling in his eyes. “Why would he follow you?”

“Why does anyone tail someone?”

“Information.”

“Yeah, and based on my source, he’s not the real
Koncak, who works out of Mission Hills PD, and is clean, as is the real
Fishburne.”

“Is your source reliable?”

“Very.”

Halladay shook his head. “Shit. This is bad.”

“You’re the expert, but I believe we have solid
ground here for a criminal investigation. As we both know, covering up a man’s
death and impersonating a police officer is no small matter. Neither is murder
which, I imagine, is what we’re looking at here.”

Halladay said nothing, clenching and unclenching
his fists. He stopped and locked eyes with me. “I see one very serious flaw in
your thinking; Cicero was not popular either with local law enforcement, or the
Feds. When a bad guy gets whacked, no one, particularly cops, give a damn.”

“You’re right, and that’s why I’m convinced Jade
and Richard are in danger.”